


is this what love is for?

by Alienu



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Near Death Experiences, No Smut, Romance, Separations, Sleepy Cuddles, Suicidal Thoughts, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienu/pseuds/Alienu
Summary: He looks into Dream’s eyes, taking in the youthful mirth that shines within the kaleidoscope of greens, feeling something in his stomach flutter when Dream grins so hard that his eyes crinkle at the edges. The music plays softly in the background as they fall into a rhythm, the gentle pressing of piano keys accompanied by the slow, long strokes of a violin to create something beautiful.“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Dream murmurs.George rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself.“Not so bad."Or; George, in the midst of an apocalypse, discovers that things could be a lot, lot worse.Arguably.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 196
Kudos: 680
Collections: MCYT





	is this what love is for?

**Author's Note:**

> wooo boy this was a doozy! if you were wondering why i didn't post at all for what -- ten days? this is why. 20k+ words. all dnf. you guys are being spoiled tonight.
> 
> In typical Alienu fashion, here are the songs I looped during this (very very long) writing process:
> 
> [projector - Eden](https://open.spotify.com/track/13nqSnXz9VOVEZT5gwCRgf?si=arzWzmTXSDy4Ch0scMcUFA)
> 
> [Gravity - Eden](https://open.spotify.com/track/4gUQmfnDAS7wwH0pzOH3Fb?si=6e0RekiESaibkMp-YLw5vg)
> 
> [julia - Jeremy Zucker](https://open.spotify.com/track/4wJaoAVSc8X5rBhmoGdtvp?si=53yBfgYDSbSgMc4LaT65ig)
> 
> [somebody loves you - Jeremy Zucker](https://open.spotify.com/track/5bP2w6Jfk5L44Mf2vqxhAl?si=Nj6dI7F2Ts-I4__n_OyNmQ)
> 
> [Roadtrip - Dream, PmBata](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Agtk2MrapdZAVN7v6PuFO?si=gP7Qblr2StCCChw8vH-l-Q)  
>    
> Please note that there are a few potentially triggering topics touched on throughout the fic -- I will point out that the implied suicide is not graphic, the thoughts of suicide are skimmed over. I tried to make it as post-apocalyptic as possible, but if any of that makes you uncomfortable or triggers you, I encourage you not to read it.
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy. :)

Home, for George, is a simple thing.

Home is supposed to supply safety and empathy and love. It’s supposed to make everything feel okay even in the shittiest of situations, to take away the negativity and replace it with positivity. People say that home comes in many different forms. They say that it can be many things, like a building, a feeling, a memory.

Home, George thinks, is both none of these things, and all of them.

For George, home comes in the form of wheezing laughter and lewd jokes, of gentle touches and whispered reassurances, of bright lime hoodies and ash scented headbands. 

Home comes in the form of two men, who smile at him like he is the sun and smile at each other like they are the stars, who find reasons to live despite the cold unforgiving nature of their world, who make him feel protected and safe and loved. 

Some people call home a house.

Others call it love.

And George?

George calls home by the names of ‘Dream’ and ‘Sapnap’.

  
  
  
  


George doesn’t know exactly when Dream and Sapnap found him, nor does he remember why he ever agreed to traveling with them. He thinks, sometimes, that they must’ve saved him, or vice versa. It’s been so long since they met that he doesn’t remember anymore. He can recall some things from when he was alone, if he reaches far enough into the back of his mind, but he prefers not to think about it. George doesn’t think he can ever handle being alone again, not after Dream and Sapnap barged into his life with their stupid jokes and boyish grins. Sapnap and Dream have always had each other, ever since the start of this shit, ever since the first outbreak struck and suddenly people were dying only to come back with glazed over eyes and rotting skin. They’re lucky to have had each other. George didn’t have anyone at the start to keep him sane and protect him like they did, and being alone was hell. He never wants to go back to that time. A part of him is almost surprised he survived long enough to meet the two idiots he’s with now.

Absentmindedly, he adjusts the gun in his arms, pebbles crunching beneath his feet. The chatter from his two companions serves as an odd sort of background noise as they stroll. He thinks they’re arguing about something, though the subject of their dispute remains unbeknownst to him. Fondness sparks a warmth in his chest and he resists the urge to smile, the talk from his friends and the heavy weight of the firearm in his hands giving him a feeling of security.

George remembers a time where he couldn’t shoot a gun. It was a long while ago, when he used only an old hatchet found in the garage of some abandoned house and a few spare kitchen knives. At the time, guns (or pistols, more accurately), were carried by him only for intimidation purposes. He remembers seeing the surprise on Dream’s face when he admitted that he couldn’t actually use a firearm. Sometimes, if he remembers hard enough, he can still feel the hot embarrassment that stained his cheeks pink on that day.

But Dream, luckily, had taken it upon himself to teach George how to shoot a gun, because apparently Sapnap was about as good of a teacher as a primary school kid. 

_(“I don’t teach_ that _bad,” Sapnap pouted, crossing his arms. Dream only rolled his eyes, gesturing to the smaller, more compact weapon that the younger held._

_“You don’t even aim,” he pointed out, “you just spray and pray.” Sapnap’s indignant ‘Hey!’ was ignored, and Dream turned to George with an indifferent shrug. “You should probably learn how to use a gun if you want a better chance of surviving.”_

_“Right,” George had said, raising an eyebrow. Sarcasm dripped from his words, “You know it’s kind of hard to learn when you’re… by yourself. And noise attracts them.”_

_“No need to be snarky about it,” Dream rolled his eyes and stepped over a piece of stray metal. “Be careful, I might just shoot you if you annoy me enough.”_

_George, tactfully, shut his mouth. Sapnap bursted into laughter.)_

“George!” Dream says suddenly. George jolts, alarm spiking on his skin for a brief moment before it calms, and twists his head to peer over his shoulder at the other two. 

“What do you want?” He asks, feigning exasperation despite the way the corner of his lips twitch upwards. If Dream notices, he doesn’t comment, though his green eyes narrow playfully. George had discovered a while back that Dream’s body is very expressive, even if he tried so hard to make it the exact opposite. There are little signs, like the way he’ll tap his fingers when bored, or how he’ll run his hands along the length of his gun when stressed. His eyes are expressive too. George wonders if that’s just him being good at reading people.

_(“Hold the gun like this and spread your legs a little more,” Dream murmured into his ear. George swallowed, trying to ignore the gentle flame licking at his gut as Dream’s hot breaths ghosted past his neck. He did as he was told, adjusting his grip on the gun as his shoes shuffled on the grass. Sapnap was out scavenging, somewhere, something about needing some alone time. Dream hadn’t argued, and instead decided to take the time to teach George how to fire a gun._

_“Posture is important because if you don’t hold steady, the recoil might throw people like you off balance.”_

_He blinked, slightly stunned. “Are you saying I’m small?”_

_“Yes,” came the reply, without hesitation._

_George huffed indignantly. “I am_ not _small,” he grumbled._

_The shit-eating grin in Dream’s voice was audible. “You’re small to me.”_

_“I’m going to shoot you,” George scowled, finger adjusting itself on the trigger of the gun. Dream wheezed, clearly not believing him in the slightest._

_Dream, George decided then, was very much of an asshole.)_

Dream jabs a thumb towards Sapnap, who strolls with his hands cupping the back of his head and his weapon slung loosely at his side. “Sapnap’s being an idiot.”

George rolls his eyes, “When is he not an idiot?” And Sapnap scowls, false offense twisting his features.

“Why are you guys so mean to me?” He complains loudly. George glances at Dream, who stares back with an equally exasperated expression. “I’ve never been anything but kind to you both. I’ve saved you, helped you, gotten you food, given you ammo, what more do you want from me? A kiss? Cuddles?”

George wrinkles his nose and glances away, side-stepping around a rather large piece of rubble on the road, and puffs out a snarky ‘Shut up, Sapnap,’ at the same time Dream makes an exaggerated noise of disgust and says ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’.

Sapnap scowls even more, crossing his arms. “You are a bitch,” he declares.

_“You_ are bitch.” Dream retorts.

“You are a bitchier bitch.” 

“You are the bitchiest bitch.”

George snorts. “You’re both bitches.”

“Rude,” they say unanimously.

He huffs, and the trio falls silent. Only the sound of their quiet footsteps on cracked pavement fills the still air. He takes the time to check his gun, making sure everything is good. The backpack hanging off his back is heavy, weighed down with food and ammo and other weapons, some of which are knives and others that are guns. Sapnap begins to hum softly, a song that George doesn’t recognize, but it sounds nice and he listens along quietly, the atmosphere oddly serene.

Dream falls into step beside him soon, a welcome presence. His mask is pulled down under his chin to reveal the light freckles dusting across his face, lips tilted into the smallest of smiles as they listen to Sapnap’s absentminded humming. George looks away when Dream cranes his head to catch the former’s gaze, the embarrassment of being caught staring coloring his cheeks a gentle pink. A small huff of laughter slips from Dream’s lips, making him scoff quietly and tighten his fingers around the firearm in his hands.

_(“If closing one of your eyes helps better, then go for it,” Dream suggested. George nodded, his mind whirling and struggling to pay attention as Dream’s chest pressed into his backside. Their close proximity was making it difficult to straighten his thoughts, much to his annoyance. Dream spoke again, after a moment. “Aim is important, we should save as much ammo as possible.”_

_“Noted,” he murmured, squinting and raising the pistol higher so that he could see the old soda can, placed on a fence a few meters away. He resisted the urge to sigh in relief as the weight pressing into his backside retreated, green and black shifting in the corner of his vision to stand at to side. “You sure there won’t be any… hordes, out here?”_

_Dream shook his head, “We’re pretty far out from the city,” he assured, smiling, “if anything it should be one or two stragglers, nothing we can’t handle.”_

_“One or two is still dangerous,” George muttered quietly, eyes narrowed as he stared out into the distance._

_“Well, I would hope that you don’t doubt my abilities_ that _much,” Dream chuckled, “I did save you that one time, didn’t I?”_ _  
__  
__“With the help of Sapnap,” he reminded. The other shrugged, not saying anything, but the boyish grin that stretched across his face said enough. George rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to the target in the distance. Aiming shouldn’t be_ too _hard._

_He breathed in, and pulled the trigger._

_The shot rang out in the air, making him flinch at the sheer volume for a brief second. He squinted, peering into the distance where he could see the sour yellow of the can, blending in with it’s similarly colored surroundings._

_The soda can remained still. He missed._

_Maybe shooting a gun would be harder than he had thought.)_

“We should find a place to stay,” Dream says abruptly, startling him out of his thoughts. George turns his head, allowing his gaze to rake over the wisps of dull blond hair that peeks out from under the hood of Dream’s bright green hoodie, then down the bridge of his nose where light freckles are splattered over the tan skin, then his eyes catch onto the faint scruff growing on his chin, and finally it settles on the soft, pink lips that are pulled into a thin line. He thinks absentmindedly that Dream looks kissable.

Realization hits him a split-second later. He pushes the thought away immediately, red flushing his cheeks, and mumbles out a halfhearted response, “I feel like we’ve been walking on this highway for years.”

Dream laughs, the sound sweet in his ears. “I think the next city should be coming up soon.” Green eyes dart towards the sky, where the sun is only a sliver of blinding light peeking over the treetops. “Then we can hole up in an actual building instead of camping out, y’know?” Dream pauses, then adds on, “They probably left a trail in the city.”

He glances away at the mention of _them._ “I don’t know why you’re so adamant on finding this ‘sanctuary’.” He says, “It’s probably fake.”

The response he gets in return sounds wistful. “Probably,” Dream agrees, voice soft, “but it’s nice to feel hope, every once in a while. Don’t you think?”

“I guess,” he mutters, suddenly feeling exhausted. “What do we do if it’s not real, then?”

  
  
Dream shrugs, the humorless smile in his voice audible, “We move on. What else?”

For a moment, George thinks it’s almost poetic.

  
  
  
  


The neighborhood is quiet. 

It’s unsettling.

George breathes out a sigh, the men beside him silent as they tread through the unfamiliar territory. Urban areas, he had discovered quickly, are always the most dangerous. Too many hidden places to be caught off guard. He never likes sifting through these areas, despite their usefulness. 

Dream pokes him in the arm, jerking his head towards a row of particularly large, two story houses, with the windows unbroken and the doors shut, as if no one had raided it yet. Sapnap is already bouncing up the walkway towards one, knife in hand — there’s no point in using a gun and stirring up the whole neighborhood just for one of them — and testing the doorknob.

“I’ll search the other one,” Dream says, his voice muffled through the material of his mask as he pulls it over his nose, “take the last?”

  
  
“Yeah,” George mutters, suppressing a sigh, and watches as Dream splits off, veering left, to break into the middle house. The house he’s been assigned, unfortunately, looks scarily untouched. George mutters a few half-assed prayers — to what god, he has no idea — under his breath. The door is unlocked when his hand settles on the rusting doorknob, which only serves to worsen the feeling of trepidation boiling his gut. He takes a breath, swinging the door open and takes one, hesitant step inside the house.

There’s a fine layer of dust coating the floor when he steps in, the smell wafting through the air making him scrunch his nose and cough a little. It’s dead silent, eerily so, and it looks as if someone _had_ been living here, after society pretty much fell apart. He wonders, stepping into the kitchen and opening the cupboards to find a few old ramen cups, if they had just up and left. The ramen cups find their way into his backpack, settling amongst the old granola bars and peanut butter crackers. 

He smiles a little. _Dream and Sapnap will love this._

Moving on from the kitchen, he strolls through the living room, where a dusty old couch sits next to a TV, the screen dark. There’s nothing here except for old picture frames, so George steps carefully around the stained coffee table and makes his way towards the stairs, one hand settling on the smooth railing. The wood groans under his weight. 

_God,_ the smell up here is even worse. He shakes his head, hatchet in hand, and carefully opens each door. The bedrooms are mostly empty, save for a few empty mattresses and suspicious stains on the floor that he steps carefully over. 

A family must’ve been living here. He sighs, opening the door to the master bedroom. Bile rises in his throat when vile air floats out, and he resists the urge to vomit. George peeks his head in carefully, alarm spiking his skin when his eyes catch onto the splatter of red, dried blood smeared on the wooden floor. His eyes move up, following the trail as it drags up, and then they catch onto the loud, buzzing flies and the pistol that lays in one limp hand, and suddenly the horrid smell makes sense.

_So that’s what happened to them._

George closes the door, stomach curling as the sight of rotting skin, the pristine whiteness of bone just barely visible, and glazed over eyes flashes in his mind again, trying to push down the urge to hurl up his stomach’s contents. He turns, rushes down the stairs and pushes the front door open to stumble blindly onto the patio and inhale cool, fresh air. Dream and Sapnap are outside already, chattering, but the moment they see the look on his face Dream’s eyebrows dip in concern and Sapnap is moving forward to grab him, holding him steady.

“Don’t go in the house,” he chokes out, breaths shallow as he tumbles into Sapnap’s warm embrace. The younger holds him close, one hand smoothing into his hair, “There’s… someone was — just,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “please don’t go in. Please.”

“Okay, okay, chill,” Sapnap soothes, tossing a glance at Dream, who only shakes his head, “we won't, it's fine. Don’t think about it, okay?”

George nods, inhaling shakily as he tries to keep the memory out of his mind. They stand there for a moment, Sapnap’s hand threading through his hair comfortingly as gentle reassurances pass through his lips. 

In all actuality, George should be used to it by now. 

But even despite that, he can’t get it out of his head that they were a _person,_ that they lived and loved and sacrificed just like he did. Just like he _does._ And they — _God,_ the sight was grotesque. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to focus on that. It doesn’t work very well.

  
And to think, if Dream and Sapnap hadn’t found him when they did, that might’ve been him.

He mumbles out a curse and straightens, pushing those thoughts out of his mind firmly. Sapnap allows him to pull out of his arms, remaining unusually quiet, and the two wait as George takes a few deep breaths, clearing his mind of the vile thoughts that have invaded it. 

“Okay,” he says after a moment, running a hand over his face, “sorry, I’m.. let’s just go. I don’t wanna stay in this neighborhood.”

Sapnap nods, not saying anything, their steps on the pavement quiet as they leave the neighborhood behind.

If either of them notice the way George’s hands tremble as he tucks his hatchet back to its place on his belt, they don’t mention it.

He’s grateful for that.

  
  
  
  


“Is there even a point of living anymore?” He asks once, knees pulled up to his chest as he stares out across the rooftops. The night is all but silent, only the faint chirping of crickets serving as a sort of background noise. If he squints, he can see the faint, moving shapes of the undead, a few lumbering stragglers in the neighborhood that they’ll probably go to get rid of once the sun rises.

Beside him, Dream shrugs. “Depends.”

“Helpful,” he rolls his eyes, smiling drily, “care to elaborate?”

A sigh passes through Dream’s lips and he leans back, flopping onto the hard tile of the roof. “It just… depends. I live for you guys.” Green eyes dart to meet George’s. “I think the only reason I ever made it this far was because I had Sapnap, and he had me. And then we — we found you, y’know? And I don’t… I dunno. I don’t see any point in dying as long as I have you guys.”

“And what happens if we die?” He asks, quiet.

Dream looks back to the stars. “I don’t know.”

“Would you..” George swallows, “would you just… end your life?”

He shrugs again, “Maybe. I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be kind of a waste, then? If I just… ended it all. I mean, wouldn’t you want me to live? For you and Sap?”

“I guess so.” George mutters, “I’d end it, maybe. I don’t think I can handle being alone again. Not after.. not after this. It’s,” he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his knees closer to his chest, “it’s horrible, Dream.”

Dream breathes out softly. “I wouldn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s — when you’re alone it’s just… maddening.” He shakes his head, thinking back to the weeks before Dream and Sapnap. Every day back then felt like a chore, and George had constantly found himself wondering if things would be easier if he just… took his own life. Things had been tough. George thinks he would go insane if he has to ever be alone again.

“Well, I’m here now,” Dream mumbles, sounding shy. Is it shy? He doesn’t really know. “I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon, and Sapnap definitely doesn’t either.”

His heart squeezes a little at the thought. George drags his gaze away from the stars, settling it instead on the man beside him. Dream meets his eyes questioningly, lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. So instead, George speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.” _I don’t know what I'd do without_ you.

Dream sits up, offering George a soft smile as moonlight reflects in his eyes and makes the emerald green seem even more prominent, and responds. “You don’t need to. I’ll be here with you, George. We’ll be here with you.” His voice is soft. “You’re not.. alone anymore. You have us.”

“I have you. And Sapnap,” he repeats softly, his cheeks feeling warm. Dream laughs quietly, a smile dancing on his lips. 

“You have me.” He affirms, voice warm with something that sounds like affection, “Always me.”

George nods and doesn’t respond. Something flutters in his stomach.

He thinks, distantly, that it might be love.

And somewhere in the vast, open fields of space, a star is formed.

  
  
  
  


He probably should’ve known, going into the place where skyscrapers reach high into the sky and abandoned cars litter the streets, blood permanently stained into the concrete, that the city will always be a bad idea. 

He should’ve argued against Sapnap and Dream’s insistence to head into the city. He should’ve refused to go — they would have relented if he’d voiced his concerns a little more firmly. There’s a lot of things he should’ve done differently, he finds, kneeling blankly in the pool of scarlet blood that’s only growing in size with every second that ticks by and listening to Sapnap’s shallow breaths as he lays propped up in Dream’s lap. There’s — god, there’s so much blood, and fuck someone’s crying — is he crying? And Sapnap is bleeding and there’s corpses everywhere and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ he should’ve _known._

“Oh,” Sapnap mumbles out, smiling weakly despite the situation, “this kind of sucks.”

“You’re so fucking dumb,” is all he says, holding back the sob that threatens to burst from his throat. “You’re such an idiot.”

“In my defense,” he wheezes out, one hand pressing to the wound at his hip. The bite mark. He laughs a little, sounding strained, “my decision making skills have never been the best.”

“Shut up,” Dream mutters out brokenly, squeezing his eyes shut as salty tears roll down his cheeks, “please don’t do this to me, Sap. We’ve… we’ve been together since the beginning. You can’t do this to me.”

“Sorry,” Sapnap apologizes weakly, “sorry. I got reckless. Here’s some advice: don’t get bit. It hurts. Like a bitch. 0/10 would not do it again.”

George laughs, wiping away his own tears, and shuffles closer so that he can grab Sapnap’s hand, feeling his calloused, bloody palm slip into his. The blood seeps into his clothes and fills the air with a metallic stench, making his hands sticky and his nose scrunch up from the smell, but he doesn’t care, really. The only thing he can focus on is the fact that Sapnap is _dying_ and there’s nothing they can do. Just the thought makes his chest squeeze tighter and his teeth dig hard into his bottom lip.

God, it hurts. Is it supposed to hurt this much, losing someone like this? He doesn’t know. Tears slip down his face in a steady stream, cold anguish churning in his gut like liquid carbon.

“It’ll be fine,” Sapnap mutters, the words sounding like they’re meant more to reassure himself rather than the other two, “You’ll be fine without me. I’ll come back as a dog and annoy the shit out of you. Won’t be gone for long. Maybe a husky. Huskies are cool.”

“I’ll shoot you if you do,” Dream gives a watery laugh, and George, through teary eyes, watches as Dream’s hand digs a little more into the fabric of Sapnap’s shirt. Dark hair sticks to tan skin, sweat beading on his forehead as his chest rises and falls quickly. The sight makes the grief lodged in his throat threaten to make him choke. 

Sapnap laughs. “Ah, well, you can start practicing now, yeah?”

Dream doesn’t say anything. George doesn’t either. Sapnap’s face falls.

“Hey,” He mumbles, “you know you have to. I don’t wanna—” he shifts a little, wincing and letting out a small hiss of pain, “—don’t wanna turn. Become like those things. One of you has to do it.”

Dream sniffles, his voice trembling as he speaks. “I’ll do it,” he whispers, “It has to be me.” 

“Of course it does,” Sapnap laughs, “of course it does. Give me a moment to talk to Georgie then, ‘kay?” And Dream nods slowly, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. George gently, carefully, allows Dream to shift Sapnap onto his lap, and watches with blurry eyes as Dream shuffles away, his arms wrapped himself as if for comfort. Something in his heart cracks a little more. 

“Hey,” he offers Sapnap a watery smile, “that was pretty dumb of you.”

Sapnap laughs breathlessly. “It was,” he agrees, his grin dying as he becomes more serious, “but, listen. This may be it for me, but you and Dream still… you guys have to live. Okay? Or else these past few months would’ve all been for shit.” He coughs a little, pain twisting his features for a brief moment before he looks at George again with orange eyes that are dulling with every second that passes. “Take care of Dream for me, okay? He’s… he’s going to be hurting. A lot. Find a house or a bunker to hole up in for a few days and just… just make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb. It’s,” he shakes his head, “it’s gonna be awhile before he gets over… this. So take care of him for me. He kind of,” Sapnap glances towards the side, where Dream is standing with his forehead pressed against the wall as gentle, quiet sobs rack through his body. A small smile dances on cracked lips, “don’t tell him I said this, but he kind of has a thing for you, y’know? So… if anyone can cheer him up, it’ll be you.”

George exhales. “Okay,” he nods, swallowing back the lump in his throat, “okay. I’ll try. I’m gonna miss you, Sapnap. You’re an idiot, but…” he bites back another sob, “I’m gonna miss you, dumbass.”

“Won’t be gone for long, remember?” Sapnap reminds him, chuckling, “I’ll miss you too. Be on the lookout for any huskies, ‘kay?” George nods again, and Sapnap sighs in relief. “Great. Dream. You can come back now.” The latter grins at him again, and he thinks he sees tears forming in Sapnap’s eyes for a second before they’re quickly blinked away. “Okay. See you later, Georgie. Love you.”

He tries to smile. “See you later, Sapnap.” And then softer, “Love you too.”

Dream returns, and George carefully moves Sapnap back onto his lap with shaky breaths. Sapnap waves at him before his gaze shifts to meet Dream’s watery eyes and then he’s shuffling away, towards the back of the room so that the only thing he can hear is unintelligible murmurs and a few broken sobs, most likely coming from Dream.

There’s no warning when it happens.

George can only watch as Dream bends down, pressing a gentle kiss to Sapnap’s forehead, then the shot rings out in the air and Dream is crying harder, and he’s stuffing down the grief threatening to come out in the form of tears, and no matter how much he tries to remember Sapnap’s words _(“Won’t be gone for long, remember?”)_ it still hurts. His throat still tightens and the air still rushes from his lungs as he moves forward to grab at Sapnap’s unmoving body, already losing its heat. The grief is painful and suffocating and it burns him from the inside out, making it seem as if every tear that dropped onto the floor would scorch through the tile and sizzle.

Sapnap dies that day, and suddenly the world feels a lot more dull.

  
  
  
  


Burying Sapnap hurts just as much as watching him die.

He thinks, as he stares down on the makeshift grave that they made on the side of the road where the grass is green and the litter is almost nonexistent, that getting attached to people was his first mistake.

Dream looks at him though, with green eyes that are watery with grief and anguish and guilt, and the only thing George can do is pull him into an embrace and tell him that it’s gonna be okay. That Sapnap loved them and wanted them to live and they have to move on, for their friend.

Dream says nothing, and can only bury his face into George’s neck and sob harder.

He thinks, as he runs a soothing hand through Dream’s hair and whispers halfhearted reassurances into his ear, trying to swallow back his own grief, that falling in love will be his second.

  
  
  
  


Life, George learns quickly, does not stop for death.

And so, he thinks, why should he?

Which, admittedly, is easier said than done.

He doesn’t know how long he and Dream spend huddled up in a small house, living off old rations and wallowing in their grief, refusing to leave or do anything. It’s a few days, certainly. Eventually though, he remembers Sapnap’s gentle advice _(“Take care of Dream for me.”)_ and drags himself out for long enough to go to a nearby convenience store. 

It’s miraculously untouched. He wonders if that’s Sapnap’s doing, wherever he is.

He chooses not to mull over it for too long, and spends his time shoving whatever he can find into his backpack. Canned foods, some old crackers, a tub of pudding — he laughs a little to himself at the thought of Sapnap devouring the entire container — all go into his backpack. 

The walk home is silent. George thinks it's almost peaceful, if not for the underlying nervousness that stirs beneath his skin. It’s strange, listening to only the sounds of the dilapidated neighborhood, without the familiar wheezing laughs and sly snickers that Sapnap and Dream would fill the air with. He feels oddly reminded of his time as a loner, with only his own thoughts to keep him company and the gentle whoosh of a breeze in his ears.

The neighborhood is quiet when he returns, stepping over the overgrown weeds and torn up dirt on the lawn, walking up the pathway and pressing his ear to the door for a quick second before he tentatively tests the knob. It opens easily. The house inside is silent.

“George?” Dream’s voice echoes from the back of the house, sounding raw and raspy, as if he hasn’t talked in days. He probably hasn’t. Neither of them have. Dull blond hair peeks out from a doorway, and then Dream emerges, his eyes rimmed with a faint redness from continuous crying and dark bags under his eyes. He feels self conscious as Dream’s gaze darts up and down his body, taking in the dirty boots and unsheathed hatchet. “Are you leaving?” He asks, eyebrows furrowing. There’s a tremble to his voice.

George blinks, “What?” And when Dream takes another, hesitant step forward, realization crashes into him and he shakes his head frantically, “No, I’m not — I just got back, I went to get uh… supplies. We were running low and you were sleeping, so…”

“Oh,” Dream visibly relaxes, all the tension leaving his body just from those simple words. “Okay. I don’t,” he shakes his head, “I don’t want to be alone. Not after Sap… not after he…”

“I get it,” George assures hastily, taking a few step forwards. Dream blinks owlishly at him as he speaks, “I get it. We can just stay here, for a while. If you want. There’s a few unlooted stores nearby and there aren’t many of those _things_ around. It’s…” He swallows, adds on quietly, “it’s okay here.”

“Yeah,” The latter mumbles, sounding relieved at the thought, “Yeah I.. I like it here. Sorry I’m,” he swallows, tears welling up in his eyes before they’re quickly wiped away. “It’s hard. Uh, being without Sapnap. So let’s just stay here for a while, then?”

“Yeah,” George agrees easily, offering Dream a soft smile, “let's stay here.”

And Dream, for the first time in a while, looks content. He gives a short nod and retreats back into the room he’d chosen for himself. George watches him go, standing in the hallway and simply staring as the door shut with a gentle click. No sound comes from the other side.

Wordlessly, he moves to the kitchen. The tub of pudding finds a place amongst the canned soup and ramen cups.

  
  
  
  


George allows his eyes to scan over the page, taking in each word and piecing together a story as he does. The worn paper is rough under his fingertips when he moves to flip a page. He’s surprised that the book even survived this long, especially in the world’s current state. It’s a nice one though, the writing is good (not that he’s the most critical of judges, anyway) and the story is interesting enough to keep him preoccupied, for the time being.

There’s a knock on the door. He blinks, shifting a little on the bed where he sits. Dream’s voice echoes from the other side of the door soon after. “George?”

“I’m here,” he calls, “You can come in.”

The door opens with a gentle whine, the hinges squealing as Dream peeks inside, his hair mussed and his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he had just woken up. “Are you going to sleep?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s like, two pm, Dream.”

“Oh,” Dream mumbles, sounding embarrassed, “are you uh, are you doing anything today? Like… going out.”

“I don’t plan to,” he answers, raising an eyebrow, “do you want me to?”

The door whines again as Dream opens it a little more, “No,” he shakes his head, “can I hang out with you then? In here. I’m — just tired.”

“You don’t need to ask,” George tells him, smiling fondly, “of course you can.” He shifts a little on the bed, making space as Dream nods and steps into the room fully, the door shutting behind him. The mattress dips under the extra weight as Dream flops onto it, pressing his face into soft pillows and sighing softly at the gentle hand George settles on top of his head. Nimble fingers pick through the blond strands, the action automated, and he returns his attention towards the book in his other hand.

They sit in a comfortable silence. Dream’s breaths are a slow, steady background noise that he doesn’t think he minds very much. In fact, it’s rather calming, he thinks, as Dream allows George’s hand to run through his hair, even tilting his head into the touch. He’s almost like a cat. It’s cute.

George doesn’t know exactly how long they spend there, sitting in silence with only each other’s gentle breaths filling the air between them. He also doesn’t know exactly when Dream ends up falling asleep, doesn’t know when he glances down at the other man to see his eyes shut and slow breaths passing from between slightly parted lips. Sunlight peeks through the window, splashing onto his skin and making his hair appear almost golden. He looks peaceful, all the worry and stress melted away from his face. It’s… it’s nice to see Dream so serene. The calmness of their days now is welcome, this time spent just basking in each other’s company and _healing._

George smiles, feeling strangely happy.

_Maybe things aren’t so bad, after all._

  
  
  
  


As it turns out, loving people is hard.

Or, more accurately, loving Dream is hard. Especially since he’s more of an idiot than he appears to be. George thinks that life would be a lot easier if Dream just stopped being dumb, which is easier said than done, but a man can hope.

(He also thinks that things would be a lot easier if he could just look at Dream without thinking about how damn _attractive_ he is. It really does make his life difficult.)

(That’s besides the point.)

George rolls his eyes when Dream flinches away again, hissing under the sting of alcohol as the former swipes a damp cloth lathered in the substance over the shallow gash running up his arm. There are freckles on his arms too, George notes absentmindedly, his grip tightening ever so slightly when Dream moves to tug away, whining. 

“Stay _still,_ ” he chides impatiently. “I can't do this if you keep being a wuss.” 

Dream pouts, his words lathered in playful petulance, “It _stings,_ George.”

“What do you want me to do about that?” Dream makes a face of false hurt, and George resists the urge to chuckle at his childish behavior. “This wouldn’t be happening if you were more careful.”

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he mumbles, sounding embarrassed. “There was like, a broken wall and the metal was sticking out. I wasn’t watching where I was going so it got caught on my arm.” 

“You’re lucky it was shallow,” George notes, frowning. “We need to be careful so it doesn’t get infected. Does it hurt a lot?”

Dream shakes his head offering him a reassuring grin that doesn’t work in the slightest. “It’s fine,” he says, poking at George’s forehead in a way that makes him shrink back and scowl lightheartedly, “I’ll be fine. I don’t need you to baby me, George.”  
  


“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” he admits, reaching for the first aid kit and taking the gauze into his hands. The cloth is set onto the table, and George shifts in his chair enough so he can access Dream’s arm easier, wrapping the pristine white bandages around his arm gently. If he presses his fingers down enough, George can feel the hard packed muscle that Dream carries — unsurprising, considering their circumstances. It’s rather impressive, actually, and George has to resist the urge to trail his fingers across the bicep of Dream’s arm, instead focusing on wrapping the gauze tight around his arm and securing the bandage tight.

“You don’t need to worry about me.” Dream insists. “You have better things to do, George.”

“Like what?” He raises an eyebrow, allowing Dream’s arm to return back to his side, watches him settle it gently on the wooden table. Dream shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he admits, drawing a scoff from the other, “weren’t you reading that book? And you planned on cleaning up the front yard today, didn’t you?” 

“I did,” George agrees. “It can wait, you know.”

  
Dream simply nods, and does not reply. He turns, beginning to pack the contents of the first aid kit away as the silence between them stretches on.

_(“Don’t tell him I said this, but he kind of has a thing for you, y’know?”)_

He freezes, heart stopping for a brief moment as the words ring in his mind again. God, why did he remember that just now? Bad timing. He can already feel his cheeks beginning to flush with warmth, just the thought of _maybe Dream likes me as much as I like him_ enough to make his stomach do backflips. 

Maybe he should say something. Maybe he should tell Dream how he feels. 

“George?”

He jerks, his hand slamming down on the table as alarm jolts through his body from the sudden voice. The contents of the first aid kit go flying, clattering to the ground noisily. George curses, his chair squealing as he pushes it back to kneel on the floor and pick everything back up.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, wincing at the way his voice cracks, “I just uh — remembered something.”

Wordlessly, Dream moves to help him. 

The air is tense. 

George doesn’t like it.

“What were you thinking about?” Dream asks eventually, tugging the case across the floor to shove a handful bandaids that had been scattered all over the floor back inside. George makes a mental note to organize it later, focusing instead on the current problem. 

_Dream wants to know what I was thinking about._

_Fuck._

“Just… stuff,” he stammers, heart thumping so hard he can feel it in his throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

The eyebrow raise he receives from Dream does not help in the slightest. “If it made you slam your hand so hard that you sent the medical supplies flying, it sounds like it matters a lot.”

“It was an accident!”

“If it doesn’t matter that much, just tell me.”

“ _Dream._ ”

“ _George._ ” He mocks. 

George resists the urge to groan. “You won’t—“ He cuts himself off, uncertainty churning in his stomach.

Patiently, Dream asks. “I won’t what?”

He sighs, snaps the lid for the first aid kit shut, and stands. Dream does too, and George can feel his stare burning into the back of his head as he places the case on the marble counter, staring blankly at the countertop. It doesn’t take long for Dream to speak again.

“George,” He says softly, “you know you can trust me, right?”

_That really doesn’t work in this scenario._

His teeth dig into his bottom lip and he shakes his head. “Of course I know,” he responds quietly.

“Then why are you hiding this from me?” Dream’s soft footsteps come closer, until George can _feel_ his presence, can just faintly smell the shitty 2-in-1 shampoo he grabbed from an untouched 7/11 a while back. His voice is quiet, and the subtle hurt in his words makes George’s mind swirl with guilt. “George.”

“I don’t know,” he breathes after a minute. It’s the truth, after all. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t really know why he kept hiding his feelings for Dream after hearing those words from Sapnap. There never really seemed like a right time to talk about it or confess. What is he supposed to do? George isn’t a feelings kind of person. He’s never been the one to do things first, and Dream has made it pretty clear that he’s not going to make the first move. 

He swallows. _Is now the right time?_

Well, it’s certainly convenient.

There had always been an underlying feeling of doubt stirring beneath his skin whenever he’d think about it, the fear that maybe Dream doesn’t really like him in the same way or maybe he’ll ruin everything they have eating away at the back of his mind until he felt like it would devour him from the inside out. It’s the main thing that’s been stopping him from doing anything. He likes how they are now, and doesn’t want to lose that. But at the same time he wants _more,_ and maybe George is a little greedy for always wanting more, always taking more than he needs.

Maybe wanting more isn’t a bad thing, in this case.

_Maybe I should just do it._

Maybe Dream does like him the same way.

Maybe is a very useful word, he finds.

He doesn’t even notice that he’s been gripping the counter until Dream moves forward, carefully prying his fingers away from the cold surface to allow the color to flood back from where they had gone a ghostly white. His touch is gentle, fingers warm as he stares down at George (their height difference is something he finds very annoying, nowadays) with concern etched into his face. 

“Listen,” Dream begins, slowly, “you can talk to me about anything, George. I just — I worry. Bottling up your feelings isn’t good and…” He pauses, sounding uncertain. “I’m here for you. I love you.”

_But do you love me like I love you?_

It’s all very sudden, the way George inhales and turns, his fingers slipping out of Dream’s warm hands and instead digging into the soft material of his hoodie. He watches how Dream’s eyes widen in unfiltered surprise before he decides to take a leaf out of Sapnap’s book and just _goes for it,_ the words tumbling from his lips like smooth butter.

“I love you.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat.

George swallows back the violent pound of his heart. “I _love_ you, Dream.” He repeats again. “Not in a friend way. It’s like a — an I-want-to-kiss-you way.”

And Dream, like the idiot he is, _wheezes._

He doesn’t chuckle, he doesn’t laugh, he _wheezes._ Like the kind of wheeze where he doubles over, clutches at his stomach and needs to grip onto the counter for support as loud guffaws burst from his mouth. It’s the kind of wheeze that Dream makes whenever something _really really_ funny happens, which isn’t often, but George has known him long enough to recognize it. Which only serves to make George all the more confused and just a tiny bit mortified, seeing as nothing about this situation seems remotely hilarious to him. 

George lets his hands fall limp at his sides, mouth slightly agape as he watches the man in front of him gasp for breath and clutch into the hard surface as if it’s the only thing stopping him from completely collapsing. 

What the _fuck._

He wonders if it’s too late to feed him to the zombies.

It’s a few moments before Dream recovers enough to struggle back to his feet, coughing a little and patting his chest. He takes one look at George and bursts into laughter again, for a second time, and George has never wanted to shoot anyone more in his entire life. 

“Oh my god,” Dream chokes out, inhaling shakily a few times, “ _that’s_ why you..? Oh my god.”

George drops his face into his hands, his words muffled when he speaks. “You are an idiot.”

“Oh, come on,” Dream chuckles. In response George turns away, feeling the odd and sudden urge to bang his head against a wall. Repeatedly. He also maybe wants to cry a little bit, but that’s less important. 

The embarrassment crawling up his neck in the form of a red blush does not make things better when he turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose and mentally berating himself for ever thinking Dream would take him seriously. The laughs stop abruptly, replaced with what he thinks is worry at his silence, and then a soft, “George?”

“I feel dumb,” he mutters, blinking back the humiliation that’s begun to make itself known in the form of tears at the corners of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have — ugh, I should’ve _known_ . I feel so stupid _._ ”

Then he feels two gentle hands settling on his shoulders, tugging him around, and Dream’s eyes are staring into his, fond and amused as he speaks.

“Can I kiss you?”

George’s mind blanks. “Can you — what?” It registers a split second later, and the flush coloring his cheeks burns impossibly hotter. “I — uh, yeah?”

And Dream, not wasting another second, kisses him.

It’s gentle and sweet and far too short for George’s liking, but Dream’s lips are soft and the gentle hand that cups his cheek is warm, so he ends up just leaning closer and tilting his head even more up (why the fuck does Dream have to be so annoyingly tall?) to savor the feeling. Dream allows him to settle a hand at the nape of his neck, the other splaying flat on the soft material of his green hoodie as they press together. 

Now, George has had his fair share of kisses. Yeah, they were pretty okay. Some of them were better than others. Most of them involved a lot of nose bumping and nervous giggling and awkward hand fumbling, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it did make everything feel a little forced _._

But this? 

This is natural. Almost scarily so.

Dream pulls away for a short moment, taking a breath of air, and George has to open his eyes from where they had fluttered shut. Dream grins down at him with that familiar, smug grin that he’s seen so many times before, one hand settled onto his waist and the other searing circles into his cheek. George simultaneously finds it endearing and incredibly, incredibly, annoying.

Eventually, when their breaths calm and George’s heart is no longer threatening to burst out of his chest, Dream’s voice slices through the still air, his words dripping with affection, “I wasn’t laughing at you, George.”

“It certainly looked like it.” He mutters, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on Dream’s broad chest as he leans away almost unnoticeably, scowling. 

Dream shakes his head, lips curling into a sheepish grin. “I wasn’t,” he assures gently, “I was laughing at the fact that you messed up our med-supplies because you were thinking about _me_.” A small snicker slips through his lips. George is half tempted to kiss him again, this time for the sole purpose of shutting him up.

“Right,” He says skeptically instead, clearly still doubtful.

“You flatter me, Georgie, really.” Dream chuckles, leaning forward again so that George can feel the gentle warmth of his quiet breaths ghosting past his face. “I can't believe you wanted to kiss me this entire time and didn’t say anything.”

“I can’t believe that you wanted to let me kiss you this entire time and didn’t say anything,” he retorts, cheeks flushed. Dream makes a face.

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Can I kiss you again, to make up for it?”

“Maybe,” is his response. 

Dream doesn’t need any further prompting.

  
  
  
  


Dating after the collapse of society is… certainly an adventure.

They make do with what they have, though. George thinks that he doesn’t mind this world that much after all, and learns to enjoy the beauty that comes with destruction. A large part of that can be attributed to Dream, and the fact that he manages to take them out on ‘dates’ despite their limited resources.

‘Dates’ consist of an old board game he finds in the garage one day. Another, it’s a candle-lit dinner in the form of instant noodles and a rare, unbroken wine bottle, with lavender scented candles that he finds from God knows where. It’s a spontaneous thing that George finds himself getting used to, and the times spent with Dream turn into the memories that he holds closest to his heart.

The door opens with the familiar, patterned knock that they had established. One two three, one two, one. Simple. And then Dream’s voice is echoing through the house as the click of a shutting door follows, “George?”

“I’m here,” he calls back, rounding the corner and finally catching sight of Dream, who stands in the doorway with his backpack in hand. Dream’s eyes lock onto his, bright shimmering green against calm, muted brown, and a grin worms its way onto his freckled face. “You were gone for a long time.”

“Sorry,” Dream steps forward, dropping the backpack near the door and moving in for a hug that George allows him, pressing his cheek against the top of George’s head and prolonging the hug with a gentle sway from side to side. “I missed you.” He whispers, as if it’s some important secret that only they could know. George smiles.

“Missed you too,” he responds, a bit shyly.

Dream hums, allows George to slip out of his arms. George takes a step back, taking in his appearance, checking for any cuts and injuries. He’s just the same as when he left, and George breathes a sigh of relief at the sight. Dream’s hand slips into his, his palm warm and rough and calloused, and then George tugs him back to his bedroom — their bedroom, now. The thought makes him smile to himself, feeling happy. He’s happy a lot, nowadays, and that can be attributed to Dream.

Happy in an apocalypse. That’s ironic. He thinks for a moment that it might be selfish, for him to be so content and carefree, while others are out there probably suffering and sacrificing. 

But Dream grins down at him, his eyes shining with stars, and presses a cheeky kiss to the corner of his mouth, and suddenly George doesn’t care all that much. He’s suffered too. He’s sacrificed too. 

Now he’s happy for once, and he refuses to let that go.

  
  
  
  


The second Dream sits him down at their table, his face uncharacteristically serious, George knows that something is wrong. He can already feel the trepidation beginning to fester, can already see the way Dream’s lips are pulled into a thin line and his fingers play with the cuffs of his gloves. It’s something that Dream does when he’s nervous or uncertain, and George knows him well enough that an uncertain Dream means a tiring conversation and lots of convincing.

He takes a deep breath, settles into a chair and rests his hands in his lap. “What is this about?” He asks, trying to keep his tone light. Dream clears his throat.

“I want to start looking for the sanctuary.” He says simply. 

George’s heart drops to his stomach. Not this again. He thought that Dream had forgotten about it — or at least didn’t care anymore. Apparently not. He wonders briefly how long Dream had been waiting to tell him this, how many days he spent working up the courage just for this one conversation. Dream knows better than anyone how much George loathes the idea of searching for this so called safe place.

He, in all honesty, doesn’t see the point in spending all their time looking for a place that probably doesn’t even exist. He’s happy here, in this little house with a shitty front yard and overgrown weeds. So why isn’t Dream? It doesn’t make sense to him.

Something cold begins to bubble in his stomach. Bitterness. He stays silent as Dream speaks again.

His voice is low. “I know we’ve made ourselves a home here, George, and it's nice but… I want to go and find it — the sanctuary.” A slight pause, and then, “There has to be other people on there that have survived.”

“It’s unlikely,” he mutters. Dream sighs.

“It’s worth a shot,” George clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he tries to calm the freezing hurt that’s burning in his gut. “You never know. Plus, it’s… if anything happens to me, I want people to be there for you.”

“I can take care of myself,” he retorts, keeping his voice as level as possible, “and nothing is going to happen to you. Don’t say that.”

Dream sounds exasperated now, words tinged with slight irritation. “You don’t _know_ that, George.”  
  
“Are you not happy here?” He asks instead.  
  
Dream’s eyes widen, the rustling of clothes filling the air as he shifts in his seat. “Of course I am,” he says hastily, “George — these past few weeks have been the best weeks of my life. But I can’t — something might happen and I want you to be safe if it does.” George allows himself a noise of frustration.

“We’re safe _here,_ can’t you see that?” 

“It’d be safer with other people.” Dream insists. 

“We’re more likely to die trying to find it.” George snaps. “What’s the point in dying for something that probably isn’t even real?”

“There’s no way that it isn’t. They left so many clues and directions, George. You’ve seen them for yourself!”

He remembers the red arrows spray painted onto crumbling walls, thinks of the big note scrawled in big red letters onto a dirty poster board that sat propped up against a dusty car. The anger grows, just barely.

His reply is short, curt, and just teetering on the edge of a scoff. “I highly doubt that they’re still standing after how long it’s been. What if it’s overrun? We’ll be walking straight to our deaths.”

“We should be able to see if it is before we get too close.” Dream says. “We’ll keep each other safe.”

“Just like we kept Sapnap safe?”

Regret hits him a split second after the words tumble from his lips. He swallows back the guilt that lodges in his throat, watches the way Dream goes completely still, eyes darkening. Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. George exhales slowly, flattens his hands against his thighs in an attempt to soothe the sharp pain that his nails had brought when they dug into his skin. The squeal of wooden legs sliding against tile is loud enough to almost make him flinch and grit his teeth.

“I’ll be back.” Is all Dream says, his words void of any emotion except for barely constrained anger. George hears the sound of Dream’s gun being swiped up from its place on the counter, and then the door opens and shuts with a slam that makes the house’s foundations tremble.

Only then does he get up, glancing warily at the door, then head to their room. It’s empty and Dream’s hoodie is gone from where it had previously been laying on their bed.

He ignores it. Ignores the feeling of hot, angry tears slipping down his cheeks, ignores the way his hands are trembling and ignores the way regret is lodging in his throat so thickly it feels like he’s going to suffocate.

“Idiot,” he mutters instead, and whether it’s directed towards Dream or himself, he doesn’t know.

  
  
  
  


Hours pass, every minute dragging by slowly until sunlight no longer filters through the blinds of their window, and the guilt threatens to strangle him alive. George lays in their bed, curled up in blankets that smell too much of him and not enough of Dream, wondering if this, of all ways, is how they part.

_(“I’ll be back.”)_

He wonders if Dream is out there, dead. Dream has always been good on his word. There’s no way that he’d just up and leave, right? His eyes wander to the dirty, black backpack that sits just near the door to their room, a familiar white smiley sticker standing out against the dark material. Dream didn’t take his backpack when he left, and George knows well enough that Dream not taking his backpack means he only expected to be out for an hour or two, not this long. It had been midday when he had left, and now George is certain that if he looked outside he would see the sun bleeding streaks of pink and orange into the blue sky. 

He digs his face deeper into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling his knees closer to his chest and pushing all thoughts of Dream’s death away. Dream is far too stubborn to die, and as long as George has known him (how long has it been? Almost a year, surely), Dream has always done exactly what he says he will do. It’s one of the many things that stays constant about him. George has always valued his honesty.

Honesty has always been one of Dream’s best traits.

He thinks back to their argument, the scathing words that had tumbled from his lips _(“Just like we kept Sapnap safe?”)_ making the cold feeling in his stomach intensify. It was a shitty thing for him to do. He shouldn’t have said it. George digs his teeth into his bottom lip, hard enough so that he can taste the pinpricks of blood beginning to bead under the sharp pressure, mentally berating himself for ever letting himself say such a thing. He _knows_ that Dream means well. Dream has always been far too selfless for his own good, has always put George’s needs before his, and George thinks that his selflessness is simultaneously the best part of him and the worst. 

Someday, his selflessness will be the cause of something bad. George doesn’t know when that is going to be, but he does know that stubbornness and selflessness are two traits that don’t mix well together. 

He ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head that whispers about how Dream’s selflessness has already caused something bad, that he’s probably out there dying right now with no one to help and it’s all George’s fault because George is _selfish_ and if he only said yes none of this would’ve happened. 

Distantly, his mind wanders to memories with Sapnap, and misses him. Sapnap would’ve known what to do. Sapnap has always known Dream like the back of his hand and he’d have gone out there, found Dream and talked to him, protected him, brought him _home._

_(“It’d be safer with other people.”)_

Maybe George is in the wrong this time.

Maybe a safe place would be good.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to search for the sanctuary and find other people. He thinks that things would be a lot less worrying if he knew someone who would go after Dream like Sapnap would have, someone who would keep Dream safe when George isn’t able to and someone who they could keep safe in return.

He thinks that Dream may have had a point.

  
  
  
  


George dozes, lost in his own thoughts and worry bubbling like slow rising lava in the back of his mind with each minute that passes and Dream does not return, the house eerily silent and the light draining from the sky. Eventually it’s dark enough that shadows have begun to cling to the walls, creeping around every corner like dormant monsters that have finally been roused from their slumber. He drags himself out of bed to light the candles that they had set up in their room, placed for the nights spent doing late reading or sharpening weapons. A soft glow fills the area when he’s done and George has half the mind to enjoy the scene, even despite the ruffled sheets and blatant lack of Dream.

And then he hears the knock. One two three, one two, one.

Dream.

It really is kind of embarrassing how fast he scrambles to the door, nearly tripping over stray clothes and stumbling over his own feet as he yanks the handle and rushes out into the hallway, where he can clearly hear the gentle click of the front door opening and soft, quiet footsteps thudding on the wood floor.

It’s dark and Dream’s silhouette is just barely illuminated by the pale moonlight shining from outside, his green eyes brimming with exhaustion and relief. George stops, takes in the blood splattered across his clothes and the fresh cut slicing up his cheek, jagged and fresh, and immediately the worry comes crashing back tenfold. Dream closes the door, weapon in hand, and walks a few steps further. George snaps into action.

“What happened?” He breathes, shuffling forward to let Dream lean on him, a constrained hiss of pain passing from between gritted teeth as George guides him carefully to the kitchen, pulling out a chair and watching Dream slump into it, knife dropping on the table and his pistol following suit.

“Caught up in a horde,” He mumbles, words slurring together as George fishes the first aid kit out of their cabinets, “had to hide out for a little. ‘M sorry.”

He takes a shaky breath, setting the case down on the table and pulling out a water bottle to wet a cloth and wipe the scarlet, drying blood on Dream’s face away. Dream allows him to, his eyes only a sliver of green peeking out from beneath half-shut eyelids.

“Don’t be,” he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “At least you’re home.”

A smile ghosts across Dream’s lips. “Yeah,” he chuckles, words throaty, “I’m home.”

It doesn’t take long for George to take care of the injury, his work quick and efficient. Dream allows him to tug the dirty hoodie off of his body, putting it somewhere to wash later, and store the first aid kit away. His breaths are soft in his ear when George helps him up, palms sliding gently over Dream’s freckled arms and supporting his weight to guide them to their bedroom. 

The springs squeal as Dream settles himself down, a content sigh leaving his lips, and holds an arm out to George. It’s an unspoken agreement between them that the conflict from earlier will be left for tomorrow, he realizes, climbing into bed and settling his head on the spot on Dream’s chest where he can hear the gentle _thump thump thump_ of his heartbeat, slow and steady and constant.

Dream’s gentle exhales are a comforting presence as he slips into unconsciousness easily, the exhaustion from his adventure outside pulling him easily into a restful sleep. George plays with the hem of Dream’s white t-shirt absentmindedly, listening to his soft snores and letting the adrenaline from seeing Dream injured and exhausted to calm. Sleep comes shortly after, and he’s glad for it.

  
  
  
  


“I’m sorry.” He starts with, the second he walks out of their bedroom and finds Dream at the table, fiddling with his pistol and cleaning his knife. The words are heavy on his tongue, but he forces them out — George has never been good at apologizing. Dream looks up at him, silent for a moment. 

He clears his throat, setting the weapons down on the table gently and getting to his feet. And then holds his arms out, wide enough so that George can get the message and step forward to slide into his embrace. Dream’s arms wrap around him and his face presses into the top of George’s head.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” George mumbles, pressing his face into Dream’s white shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Dream squeezes him tighter. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers. “I wasn’t trying to understand the way you felt and—“ he takes a breath, “—I’m sorry, George.”

Relief floods his chest. George smiles, pulling away just barely in order to press their lips together in a chaste kiss that says _I love you, it’s okay_ more than just a simple _I forgive you._

It’s a while of them just standing there, reveling in the quietness of their kitchen and each other’s touches. George inhales Dream’s smell, that reminds him of sunlight and flowers and warmth, twists his head to press a kiss on Dream’s jaw and smiles when Dream hums and nuzzles into George’s cheek in retaliation. 

Eventually, he speaks, Dream’s soft breaths hot on his skin, “We can go.”

“Are you sure?” Dream murmurs, “I’m okay staying here.” 

“I’m sure.” George squeezes him tighter, “I want to go. And if it’s not there we can just,” he smiles, “we can just come back here, right?”

“Right.” Dream breathes. “Okay. Tomorrow, then?”

George nods. “Okay,” he agrees quietly, “tomorrow, then.”

  
  
  
  


Days pass, and George learns that adventuring is something to be missed.

There’s something so addicting about it, he thinks, walking through the quiet streets with Dream’s fingers slipping against his. It’s peaceful to walk through the streets, watch the birds fly past, which are dark smudges stark against the bright sky. He enjoys the feeling he gets, strolling like this with Dream’s hand enveloping his and listening to the bird calls that echo through the area. It makes him feel warm and happy, despite the underlying threat of danger that lurks beneath the facade of peacefulness. George knows well enough that nothing is really ever ‘safe’, especially in the world they live in now, but he still allows himself to relax a little and enjoy the time spent with the man at his side.

Heading north — where Dream presumes the sanctuary to be and where all the signs point to — is a long, tedious task. George can already see the first drops of orange beginning to spread throughout the leaves of every tree, marking the beginning of fall. 

“George,” Dream’s voice cuts through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. George turns his head with an absentminded ‘hm?’ and lifts his gaze to meet warm green eyes that are bright with fondness and care. Dream squeezes his hand, lifting the other — which is tightly curled around the hilt of his axe — and points towards a run down looking shop with vines slinking up the red brick. If he squints, he can peer through the dark windows where there are rows and rows of shelves — of what he cannot identify. 

“Look,” Dream says simply, “let's go in.”

“Why?” George asks, puzzled, but Dream is already stringing him along and guiding him up onto the concrete sidewalk, pushing the glass door open, inhaling the stale air and coughing on the dust that stirs from their disruption.

Dream’s intake of air is childish, sort of, as he gazes around the building with wide eyes and a grin that’s growing progressively bigger the longer his eyes skim over the area. George swats away the flecks of dust floating around his face and straightens, peering around and — oh.

_A record shop?_

“Why are we here?” He asks eventually, but is ignored as Dream’s hand slips out of his — the warmth is sorely missed, but he doesn’t comment on that — and then he’s watching Dream stroll slowly through the racks and racks of old vinyl, eyes skimming over the colorful covers and his fingers reaching out to tentatively feel the material, brushing off months of dust and neglect. He’s entranced, for some odd reason. George had been under the belief that record shops went bankrupt, or something along those lines, as they had always been pretty rare to come across, even as a child.

“Do you think they have a record player?” Dream asks, his words dripping with amazement and wonder in a way that makes affection spark warmly in George’s chest.

He clears his throat, taking a few steps further in. “Maybe,” he answers honestly, “I doubt it’ll work though.”

“You never know until you try.” Dream says cheerfully. And then he’s bouncing towards the back, hopping over the counter and fiddling with the knob on the door that reads ‘Storage’ in golden letters. He gets it open eventually and George lags behind, fingers tapping patiently on the dusty front counter, rolling his eyes and grinning at the gasp of delight he hears and the ‘George, they _do!’_ that follows shortly after. He returns, appearing with a dusty-looking record player in his arms. 

It’s set down gently onto the front counter, Dream clearing away the unimportant papers and brushing past George to pluck out one of the records on the shelves. George watches with a raised eyebrow, giggling under his breath as he watches Dream carefully slide the disc out of it’s protective case and place it onto the stage. A few minutes are spent just observing as Dream fiddles with the controls, muttering ‘come on’ and ‘please’ under his breath until finally, miraculously, it begins to spin.

The music that fills the air is the first music that George has heard in _months._

It’s classical music — not quite George’s taste, to be honest — but the beaming smile that spreads across Dream’s face is triumphant and ecstatic and worth the wait. The music is gentle, not fast paced but more slow, an intricate melody of violins and piano mixed together so well that George has to mentally applaud the composer. It’s a good song.

“George,” Dream’s voice cuts through the gentle music, walking around the counter to settle a hand on his arm. The touch is electrifying — something George has never quite gotten used to — and he tilts his head bemusedly. Dream grins, tugging them away from the counter and a little more towards the shelves. “Let’s dance,” he says.

George blinks. “I don’t dance.”

“Oh come on,” Dream whines, pouting, “it’s not that hard, look,” and then he moves away, clearing the area by pushing the shelves out of the way and flinching sheepishly as his rough treatment causes a few records to clatter uselessly to the floor.

“Oops.” George rolls his eyes, but allows Dream to take his hand into his and guide him out to what he assumes is their makeshift dance floor. “I even made a space for us. Come on, George.”

“I don’t know how,” he protests softly, withholding a chuckle from the exasperated look Dream shoots at him.

“That’s not an excuse,” Dream tuts, “it’s not that hard, I’ll show you.” 

George, reluctantly, his hand to be guided to settle on Dream’s shoulder, keeping the other resting delicately in Dream’s palm. Dream’s left hand comes to land on George’s waist, his touch threatening to burn through the fabric of George’s jumper. Then, they begin to dance.

He doesn’t really know if he can call it a dance, to be honest. It’s more of a sway — them moving side to side, stepping in slow circles in the center of the area that Dream had cleared out for them. George winces when he steps on Dream’s foot once, then twice, then again, but Dream only laughs it off with an off-handed comment of ‘Dancing with boots isn’t the smartest choice anyway’ that makes George huff lightheartedly.

He looks into Dream’s eyes, taking in the youthful mirth that shines within the kaleidoscope of greens, feeling something in his stomach flutter when Dream grins so hard that his eyes crinkle at the edges. The music plays softly in the background as they fall into a rhythm, the gentle pressing of piano keys accompanied by the slow, long strokes of a violin to create something beautiful.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Dream murmurs.

George rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Not so bad,” he concedes softly. Dream smiles impossibly wider, his head tilting towards the record player, and George notices then that the music has picked up pace, if only by a little.

“Let’s change it up a bit,” he decides, ignoring George’s confused frown and the ‘Wait, Dream—‘ that tumbles from his lips, bringing them into what George thinks is a waltz. He doesn’t have enough dancing knowledge to properly tell. It’s more fast paced than their gentle sway, and George yelps when he steps on Dream’s foot (again) and almost falls.

“Just follow my lead,” Dream laughs, helping him straighten. “It’s not that hard! Forward,” he takes a step forward, and George steps back, “right,” they slide left, and somehow he manages not to stumble over Dream’s feet, “back,” this time George is the one who steps forward, “left. Repeat.”

“Slow _down,_ ” He complains, squeezing Dream’s shoulder to emphasize his point. He receives a laugh.

“It’s simple.” Dream insists. George wants to punch him. He refrains from doing so, instead focusing on not stepping all over Dream’s feet, trying to get used to the new rhythm they’ve begun. Back, left, forward, right. Repeat. 

“You are so dumb,” he mutters half-heartedly, grinning to himself at the wheeze Dream lets out. They keep dancing. “I’m going to break up with you.”

His response is an offended gasp. 

“You would never.” Dream says, “I just taught you how to waltz, you should be _grateful._ ”

George snorts. “My feet sure aren’t.” He retorts, eliciting another bark of laughter. Dream leans down, presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek — it turns out it’s hard to kiss someone when you’re dancing — and George makes an expression of feigned disgust, even as he leans closer and red colors his pale skin.

Dream falls quiet, allows them to simply bask in each other’s presence and dance to the first music they’ve heard in months, maybe even a year. George isn’t quite sure how long it’s been since this whole post-apocalypse shit started, and he honestly doesn’t care enough to find out. He feels oddly content here even despite the dust floating around the air, visible in the rays of sunlight that shine through the dirty windows.

George hums, leans forward to rest his head on Dream’s chest as they dance, and he thinks that maybe adventuring isn’t as bad as he thought.

  
  
  
  


George pulls his coat tighter around himself, peering over Dream’s shoulder to look at the crinkled map in his hands. The large red circle is what catches his eye first, placed just near the top of the map.

“It looks like it’s close,” he says, breaths appearing in a cloud of white mist.

Dream shakes his head, feet scuffling on the ground, where they stand on the steps of a long since abandoned house. 

“We’re at least a week away from the area they said they were in.” He says, “If we go fast we might be able to get there.” A finger is jabbed at a particularly large dot on the map, beginning to trace a large line up the paper. “We’ll cut through the city, it shouldn’t take more than two days. And once we get out,” his finger circles around two smaller dots, connected by a red line, “once we get out of the city, we can take this path up the highway. It’ll take around three days of that, passing through some urban areas, and then we’ll be here.” His finger stops, tapping once, then twice, inside the red circle. He tosses George a hopeful smile, “Then, hopefully all we’ll have to do is look around a bit.”

“That sounds long,” George mutters, struggling to wrap his head around the explanation he was just given.

Dream shrugs. “It would be faster if we had a car, but..” He sighs.

“Neither of us know how to get a car working.” George fills in for him. Dream nods. George sighs too. “Great.”

“Not really,” Dream chirps, earning himself a scoff and an eye roll as George swats at him. He dances away from the assault, onto the dying grass and wheezing as leaves crunch under his feet. 

“You are so dumb,” George rolls his eyes again, making sure to keep his voice hushed. Despite the large fence that surrounds this particular house, night always tends to be more dangerous, and George isn’t keen on dying because he was too loud and a zombie snuck up on him. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you think we should wait out the winter?”

Dream shrugs, returning back to his side. George’s hand automatically moves to grasp his, and Dream’s palm slots against his naturally. Satisfaction blooms in his chest, warm and nice.

“Maybe,” he says. “It might be better for us because it’s cold. They’ll be slower, probably. Joints and all that.”

“True,” George hums, glancing up at the sky where gray clouds drift lazily across the star-filled sky, covering the moon and making the moonlight that it produces bleary and dull. “Don’t want to freeze to death though. Does it snow here?”

“In Florida?” Dream asks, cocking an eyebrow and chuckling. George makes a face.

“I lived in the UK, remember?” He reminds, exasperated, “It’s not my fault I don’t remember the weather patterns of American states.”

“Sure,” Dream responds patronizingly, giggling at the lighthearted slap George lands on his arm, “hey, chill! It doesn’t snow in Florida, okay?” George grins triumphantly, and Dream rubs his arm with a pout. “You’re so mean, Georgie.”

“You’re so annoying, Dreamie,” he mocks. Dream scowls, sniffles dramatically, and turns away petulantly. 

George laughs and moves forward, pressing an indulgent kiss to his cheek and watches how red blooms under the spot that his lips touch. It’s beautiful, the way Dream turns to look at him with green eyes, bright with joy and cheekiness and something so undeniably _Dream._ His skin is flushed under the cold air, freckles blending into the coloring on his cheeks and making his eyes stand out even more.

“Kiss me again,” Dream says, demanding, _needy._ Like a child. George giggles, taking Dream’s face into his hands. Dream jumps at the coldness of his palms, but slowly leans into it, allows George to lean up — their height difference doesn’t really make things easy for him — lets him slot their mouths together, naturally, like they’ve done it so many times before. And they have, yet somehow every kiss manages to send the same burning fire tingling up his skin all the way to the tips of his fingers, every gentle brush of lip against lip still manages to make George’s heart stutter and threaten to burst out of his chest, every ghost-like touch that Dream’s fingers bring to his skin, whether it be on the curve of his hip or the soft skin of his cheek, still makes goosebumps rise where the pads of his finger connect.

“Better?” George breathes, pulling back to inhale cool winter air. Their foreheads press together, an action so intimate that George can’t help but smile fondly as he stares into Dream’s eyes, white flecks dancing amongst the darker greens like shooting stars, like comets, like newly formed stardust floating in the vast void of space. Dream is absolutely _ethereal,_ and George doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. 

He breathes out a trembling exhale, his thumbs rubbing gently into the silk-like skin of Dream’s freckle dusted cheeks, simply watching him. Taking in every detail, from the way his long eyelashes brush gently against his upper cheekbones when he blinks, to how he can still taste Dream on his lips, like sweet vanilla and strawberries.

“Better,” Dream whispers, smiling.

And, somewhere in the vast, open fields of space, a star explodes.

  
  
  
  


Hordes are a common thing in the world they live in.

The undead tend to group together a lot, shuffle mindlessly in the same direction with no clear reason as to why. George doesn’t know exactly why this happens, and he doesn’t really care. All he knows is that it's dangerous, and hordes can be as many from four to five of them, to _hundreds._ The larger ones are usually found in cities, hundreds of them milling around in the same area, waiting for any sign of life to come passing through so they can swarm it, grab it, tear it limb from limb and devour it’s flesh like rabid animals. He can still recall the time he came across one, before Dream and Sapnap. He remembers the visceral fear that had burrowed into his gut when he’d seen it, the hundreds and hundreds of rotting bodies, remembers the putrid smell that had filled the air — the smell of death and decay, remembers the way his limbs had froze in icy disbelief as he stared upon the sight.

Frankly put, it had been horrifying, and George doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know that getting caught up in a city horde means death.

And so, he can’t help but wonder what superior deity frowned upon them today in order to get them in this situation.

“George, _go._ ” Dream hisses, his hand pressing into George’s back, pushing him forward. George swallows, tearing his eyes away from the hundreds, thousands, even, of lifeless bodies that had caught sight of them the second they turned the corner, his shoes scuffing against the cracked pavement. Dream follows close behind, the inhumane snarls of the undead following close behind as they move, like a single unanimous wave, towards the pair. Chasing them.

Panic grips him tight, forces him to keep moving despite the way his lungs burn with a need for more and more oxygen and how his legs wail with exhaustion. Dream’s panting breaths are loud beside his ears as they dash down the way they came, weaving around abandoned cars and turning corners. 

George makes the mistake of glancing back for a split second, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the horde, following in a slow, stumbling gait with their skin sloughing off like snow and bones hanging together by threads of rotten muscle. Some are put together enough to walk fast, others are slower, and some are crawling, with their bottom halves completely removed and scarlet blood smearing in their wake. Bile rises in his throat at the sight, and he turns back just in time to prevent himself from running face first into a pole.

The way his body jerks to the side to avoid it is instantaneous, and George stumbles, hissing when his foot catches onto an uneven part of the concrete, pain dancing up his ankle in sparks. The panic increases tenfold, and George _knows,_ logically, that this is likely how he’s gonna die. He straightens, tests the leg and curses as invisible needles jab into the skin. _Sprained._

And then he feels urgent hands pulling at his clothes, tugging his arm and making him straighten. Dream’s words are breathless, muttered pleas, as he glances back, spotting the quickly approaching mob of animated corpses.

“Shit,” he mutters, not batting an eye at George’s shaky apology, dripping with panic and fear. “It’s fine, come on.” And now Dream is picking George up, one hand looping under his knees and the other guiding George’s hands to settle around his neck. The shift in weight makes him inhale sharply, Dream heaving him off the floor and lurching forward to resume their mad dash down the streets. 

“We’re not going to make it,” George hisses, looking behind them. “Dream, you can’t outrun them.”  
  


“I’m not going to leave you, George.” Dream retorts, his tone harsh, breaths coming out in gasps as his feet pound desperately against the asphalt. George inhales sharply, his gut twisting, looks back at the horde, whose throaty snarls grow louder and louder with every second that passes. 

They’re coming. They’re going to die this way.

He turns back to face Dream, whose eyes remained stubbornly focused on the road, eyebrows knitting together as sweat beads on his forehead.

George swallows, his tongue feeling heavy. “I’m slowing you down.”

“You’re not.” Dream insists.

“I _am,_ ” he mutters. “Dream, leave me and run. I’ll distract them at least for a little bit, and then you can find somewhere and hide for a few days while they pass through, okay?”

“I’m not going to leave you to die.”

“You have to.”

Dream’s words are strained, laced with desperation as his fingers dig into George’s skin. The pain is ignored. “George.”

“Dream.” He says in return, like he always does. “You know we’re not going to make it. You can’t outrun that.” And when Dream shakes his head, stubbornly, George only sighs, brings a hand up to press into Dream’s cheek, and traces over the splatter of dark freckles with delicate fingers. His voice is barely above a whisper, almost unable to be heard in the midst of the shuffling footsteps and mindless groans that fill the air.

“One of us should survive, at the very least.”

Dream swallows, slowing, his head turning and eyes catching onto the nearest building. It looks as if it used to be some sort of coffee shop, dirty windows — some shattered, some not — serving as outside walls and tables scattered around the interior. He brings them inside, stepping carefully over the fragmented glass and moving behind the counter. George can still hear the distant sounds of the horde.

“Okay,” Dream murmurs, setting George down gently on the floor behind the counter. He winces, hissing in annoyance and mild discomfort when the sharp, needle-like pain returns, jabbing into his skin and running up his entire leg like lightning. Dream glances outside, a sort of urgency guiding his movements, and then ducks back to look at George. One hand reaches to the gun at his belt, fingers closing around the hilt and slipping it out, checking to make sure it’s loaded.

“Okay,” Dream says again, clearing his throat. “Okay. Stay here. I’m going to distract them.”

Alarm spikes on his skin. “What?” George hisses, his fingers digging into the sleeve of Dream’s hoodie. “Dream, you can’t,” he says, disbelief lilting his words, “you run.” 

And when Dream shakes his head insistently, George digs his nails further into Dream’s arm, not caring if it stings. He _wants_ it to sting, wants Dream to take his head out of his ass for once and realize that George should be the one to lead them away. Dream winces at the sharp pressure, sparking something like angry satisfaction in his chest. 

“I’m going to die anyways.” He says, low, words coated in a barely noticeable anger.

Dream tugs away. “I’m not going to let that happen.” He fires back, the click of his pistol filling the air as he snaps the safety off. “I’m going to distract them,” and when George’s eyes begin to bead with hot, furious tears, he softens, drops onto his knees so that he can take George’s face in his hands and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be fine. I’ll come back.”

“You can’t,” he mumbles, voice cracking when he realizes that Dream is going to do it no matter what he says. “I should do it.”

Dream smiles, and even though it’s supposed to be encouraging, supposed to be _confident,_ it only makes George’s chest squeeze tighter. Dream is stubborn, and George usually thinks that it’s a good thing (right now, it’s not). He’s selfless, and George usually thinks that it’s a good thing (right now, it isn’t). 

“I have a chance at surviving if I go,” he reasons, logically, and George knows that Dream is right. He _knows,_ but it’s still a death sentence, going out there alone and getting chased by so many of them at once. “I’m going to lead them away,” he soothes, lips pressing into the skin at the corner of George’s eyes, kissing away his tears. “I’ll be okay. I’ll come back.”

He swallows.

“And if you don’t?” He asks, the words scraping against his throat, spilling from his lips alongside the bitter grief (how could they have gotten so unlucky?) and sour annoyance (how could he have been so useless?) that floods his chest.

“I will,” Dream murmurs, and it sounds like less of a promise and more of hope, a desperate wish.

Even so, George pretends not to hear the uncertainty in his words.

“I love you,” he says instead, and Dream smiles, softly, lovingly, viridescent adoration sparkling in his eyes.

“I love you too.” He whispers, presses another kiss to the center of George’s forehead, lips soft against his skin.

And then he stands, and he’s gone. George can hear the thudding footsteps, the crunch of shattered glass as Dream exits, and then the gunshots, slow and steady, one after another. 

The horde passes by, and there’s nothing George can do but hide, nursing his ankle and listening to the sickening groans of the undead as they shuffle past, gun in hand. Try to calm the whirlpool of panic and fear and worry swirling inside him. Inhale sharply when unsteady feet shuffle over the broken window, exhale in relief when the footsteps fade. 

He’s useless here.

So he sits, and he waits.

  
  
  
  


The sun climbs higher and higher into the sky, and Dream does not come back.

The sun drops lower and lower into the sky, and Dream does not come back.

George dozes, his eyes fluttering open and closed, back leaning against the hard material of the counter, and Dream does not come back.

He wakes up, alone.

_Dream didn’t come back._

George breathes out a shaky sigh, tugging his backpack closer to him. Reasoning that maybe, maybe Dream just has to hide out for a little. It was a big horde, bigger than anything else they’ve ever seen before. Of course Dream would have to lay low, let the undead pass through.

_He’ll come back,_ George tells himself, ignoring the seeds of doubt that have already begun to plant themselves in his mind. _Just wait a little longer._

_How much longer?_ Another part of him asks. George ignores it, pulls a protein bar out of his bag and tears the wrapper open with unsteady fingers. They’re cold — almost numb, a result of the icy winter air. The protein bar is stale in his mouth, bland, but George forces it down.

_(“These protein bars aren’t the best,” Dream had said once, ripping open the plastic and shoving a part of the hard material into his mouth. He made a face, chewing on it slowly, and George laughed._

_“It’s not like we get to be picky,” he said. Dream shrugged._

_“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but it’s fun.”_

_George cocked an unimpressed eyebrow, “Being a nuisance is fun?”_

_“Yep,” Dream said immediately. He snorted, giving Dream a gentle slap on the arm — Dream wheezed — and pushed past him to reach towards the back shelves, picking out the untouched foods and placing them carefully in his bag._

_“You’re stupid,” he muttered, fondness warming his cheeks when Dream’s chuckle filled the air, footsteps loud in George’s ears as he approached. George didn’t react when Dream’s chest pressed against his back for a short moment, soft lips landing gently on his cheek before they’re gone again, and Dream’s presence retreated._

_“Love you George,” Dream quipped cheerfully. George rolled his eyes._

_“Idiot,” he scoffed, attempting to hide his smile despite being painfully aware of the fondness disguised beneath his harsh words._

_Dream seemed to have noticed, as his response was a laugh, and nothing more.)_

“Alright,” George mutters, running a hand over his face. He swallows, slipping his knife out of his belt and stumbling to his feet. His ankle wails in protest as he tests it, tentatively, and George winces at the sharp pain that spikes up his leg.

_Alright, well, that’s unfortunate._

He inhales slowly, trying to calm the rapid beat of his heart and the worry churning in his stomach in a slow whirlpool, mixing with the anger and grief that has already begun to fester inside him. His hand rests on the edge of the counter, sliding along the smooth surface as he glances around, peers curiously at the twin doors leading to what he assumes is a kitchen. George sighs, shuffles forward carefully, doing his best to keep his sprained foot off of the ground, and pushes the doors open.

It’s empty, and dusty, and he coughs a little at the smell of molding bread and stale air, but safe. He slumps onto the ground, backpack settling beside him, and leaning his back against the cold wall. George has learned, in all his days spent surviving on this dumpster fire of a planet, that he’s pretty good at deciding which areas are safe or not. Good instincts, he thinks, which is funny because even though Dream also has good instincts, he also has the worst luck imaginable. Which is an odd sort of juxtaposition, because every time Dream gets into some risky life-or-death situation, he manages to worm his way out of it like a sneaky little _rat._

In all honesty, maybe George should be a little more faithful in Dream, what with how he always manages to survive even when he absolutely _shouldn’t,_ but it’s still the first ever time that they’ve separated. It had always been George and Dream and Sapnap — until it wasn’t, and Sapnap died with his gentle advice and whispers of another life. And now it’s just George and Dream — unless it’s not, and Dream is hiding somewhere, dying, or walking around as a reanimated corpse.

Ever since they lost Sapnap, it’s always been Dream and George, even in the direst of situations.

_(The loud, abrupt clatter of falling objects is what startled him, echoing throughout the building and probably waking up the area in its wake. George jumped, the hairs on his arms spiking in alarm, and casted a wary glance towards Dream, who stood with his hands half held out in front of him, frozen. On the floor in front lay a few tipped over cups, the shards of jagged ceramic scattered across the floor._

_“What..” George began slowly, already carefully beginning to pack up his things, “the hell did you do?”_

_Dream glanced at the door nervously, a sheepish smile dancing on his lips._

_“Oops?” He offered, flinching when the door banged, once, then twice, and then rapidly, like multiple bodies were slamming into it._

_  
__George cursed under his breath, looking quickly around the building — there was nothing much aside from a few scattered papers and empty chairs. He had been sifting through the drawers in the front desk, searching for something, anything, that could be useful to them. There had been nothing, and this was only a waste of time. Fuck._

_“C’mon,” Dream said hurriedly, his fingers closing around George’s wrist. George yelped, stumbling along and just barely managing to keep his backpack from slipping out of his hands. Dream muttered a halfhearted apology, tugging them towards the stairwell just as the door screeched, forced to open by the weight pressing against it, and rotting corpses began staggering in, tripping over each other. George winced, adrenaline pumping through his blood as soon as dozens of glazed over eyes locked onto the pair, already beginning to approach._

_“You are an idiot,” he hissed, only half joking, following as Dream pushed the door open and began to tug them up the stairs. The sound of the undead chasing after, banging the door against the wall as they clawed their way after them, was loud, bouncing off the concrete walls so loudly it was almost deafening._

_George breathed heavily, his legs burning with exertion, hand brushing against the cold metal railing as he followed Dream up every flight._

There’s no way we die here, _he had thought, even as the stairs ended and there was nothing, only a still metal door. Dream had casted a glance towards him, then down the stairs where the first dirty, fleshy hand had revealed itself, an empty eye socket and torn open stomach following closely after._

_“Go!” George exclaimed, and shoved the door open._

_The wind was what hit him first, cold and relentless, whipping through his hair mercilessly. Then he saw the sky, cottony clouds drifting past lazily, unphased by the happenings of the world below them. And then, funnily, cold realization washed over him, standing on the roof of that building, with nowhere to go. The only option, he realized, is plummeting to the ground below._

We might die here.

_Dream’s voice reached his ears, loud even over the wind as it whistled by, disbelief tinging his words as he yelled, “What are you doing? Go!”_

_“Go_ where? _” He had snapped in return, the adrenaline increasing tenfold when Dream shook his head, his grip vice-like when he grabbed him by the arm and pointed towards the other building, where the roof lay bare of any threats. The sound of a gunshot rang through the air as Dream shot the first zombie to appear through the doorway of the stairwell, watching the body thud to the ground unceremoniously._

_It was one of many, and more began to stumble in after. George blinked in disbelief, “You want me to jump?” He asked, incredulously. Dream looked at him in exasperation, green eyes bright in the sun._

_“Yes,” he answered, “it’s not that far of a jump! I’ll hold them off for now, so go.” And then he turned back towards the approaching horde, gunshots ringing out in the air one after another, bodies thudding to the ground almost rhythmically._

_He swallowed, glancing towards the other roof. There had been a solid two meter gap between the buildings, and below there were only a few empty garbage cans, and hard concrete._

_Falling meant death._

_Staying meant death._

_And George, against his better judgement, took a deep breath, ran, and jumped._

_He had thought then, that it was almost like flying. A feeling of weightlessness, something that George thought he could relish in for a brief moment. But then his feet hit the hard roof of the next building and he crumpled, palms scraping painfully against the rough terrain as he rolled. He breathed out a sigh of relief, even as his palms stung with rawness, and then he looked up to see Dream followed shortly after, feet thudding beside him as he slipped his gun back into his belt and held out a hand. George took it immediately, and Dream hauled him to his feet, a smug grin stretching across his freckled face._

_“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”_

_“Terrifying, yeah,” George grumbled, wiping his hands on his pants and turning to watch the horde as they stumbled blindly over the edge of the other roof, plummeting to the ground as the sound of shattering bones filled the air. He looked back at Dream, sighing again, “You’re insane.”_

_“You love me for it,” Dream said cheekily, and he didn’t even bother denying it. “Plus, I got us out of that situation, didn’t I?”_ _  
__  
__“You did,” he agreed. “But you’re the one who caused it in the first place.”_

_Dream waved him off, already beginning to move towards the door of the other building. “The details don’t matter,” he responded, and George laughed, allowing him to lace their fingers together as they began their descent down the stairs.)_

Dream, George knows, is a bastard, annoying and reckless and a fucking _idiot,_ but somehow, someway, he always survives.

He thinks, occasionally, that Dream is too good of a person for the world they live in. He’s too _selfless._ Too caring. He cares too much about others, and not enough about himself. Dream will always, always take the opportunity to save someone, to help them, and it’s the entire reason why they’re separated now. George thinks that things would’ve been so much better if Dream just left him to die and saved himself. It would’ve been better that way. George isn’t scared of death, in fact he thinks death would be a good thing. Freeing, in a way.

But he can’t die, not now, not when Dream could still be out there, alive. Waiting to come back to him. And he knows, even if Dream doesn’t come back, that he can’t let himself die even then. Dream would want him to live, to move on and find another group. It’s annoying, but it’s the truth. Dream made him promise that he’d live on if Dream didn’t. George intends to keep that.

It is for Dream, after all. 

George laughs at his own idiocy, the raw sound filling the air. He’s so in love it’s almost sickening, how much he adores Dream. How could he not? Dream speaks and it’s like his words are sung by the stars themselves. George bends for Dream and Dream bends for George, they’re two idiots hopelessly in love with each other, and if George believed in true love he’d think that they’re soulmates, made for each other. Destined to be together.

He wonders if there’s some distant, separate universe — another timeline, maybe, where they can be together without having to worry about these things. Without having to worry about being eaten alive by people who are supposed to be dead.

His eyes flutter shut, and he leans his head back, allowing a gentle sigh to slip from his lips. Exhaustion washes over him a second later. It feels like he’s been sitting here for hours, even if he knows only ten minutes have passed, at the very least. 

He’s tired. So, so tired.

_Just a little longer,_ George thinks dazedly, allowing his eyes to blink open once, taking in the darkness of the kitchen once more. 

_Just wait a little longer for him._

  
  
  
  


George waits. 

Far longer than he should.

The days drag on, one after another, filled with nothing but restless waiting and anxious wondering. George, eventually, caves in enough to tug his sleeping bag out of his backpack and unroll it onto the tiled floor, figuring that he’ll be here for a while.

It’s not that comfortable, but it’s hard to complain when all he does is sleep all day. George sleeps too much — far more than he ever had before, and he wakes up for a few moments only to dig around his bag and eat something small before he’s laying back down and slipping into unconsciousness again. No one comes in, not even a zombie, so he sits, and waits, and rots away in the cold loneliness of the kitchen with no one but his own thoughts to keep him company.

It’s a horrible life, really. At this point, George doesn’t even have the energy to be angry about it.

He finds himself, during the small intervals of consciousness where he sits and eats and thinks, glancing thoughtfully at his gun. It lays annoyingly untouched, and George wonders how hard it would be to pick it up, turn the safety off and-

_(“Promise me that you’ll live, even when I’m gone.” Dream had mumbled once, his nose pressing into George’s hair as they sat on the roof, bathing in the moonlight._

_George had hummed, leaning back into Dream’s chest and listening to his soft breaths. “You’re never going to be gone,” he answered softly, lacing their fingers together. “Not if I can help it.”_

_“George,” Dream said quietly, uncharacteristically serious for once. “Promise me, please.”_

_He sighed softly, casting his gaze towards the stars, where they glimmered like tiny white lights. His tongue felt heavy, the words thick in his mouth, but Dream squeezed him closer and pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, so he forced them out with as much sincerity as he could muster._

_“I promise.”)_

And just like that, the thought disperses in his mind. George sighs, kicks the gun away and watches it go skidding across the room, disappearing under one of the counters. He’ll get it later. It’s not like he uses it much anyway.

It’s painfully ironic, how certain George was back then that Dream would never leave him. It’s so ironic that it _hurts,_ and so George always pushes that thought away, ignores the twist in his chest that always comes with thoughts of Dream. It proves difficult; all he thinks about is Dream.

He discovers, in the days spent sitting around, sleeping, or wallowing in his own grief and worry, that love is both a blessing and a curse.

Falling in love is like being slowly submerged into a nice, hot bath. It’s warm and happy and lovely. Falling in love is looking at someone (in his case, Dream) and feeling like everything will be okay. But at the same time, falling in love _hurts —_ the heat of the water burns, at first _,_ because all one can do is look at the person they adore and wonder if they’ll ever love them the same, wonder if there’s a future for the two of them. George has met plenty of people who have fallen in love and regretted it, read his fair share of books where the character _doesn’t_ get a happy ending, only disappointment. He knows that he got lucky with Dream, lucky that Dream found him lovable enough to want a future together.

Loving is different. Loving Dream is like floating in that bath, in the gentle warmth so comforting that he can shut his eyes and let his surroundings melt away and lose himself in it. It’s looking at Dream, relishing the way that he can run his fingers along the curve of his jaw and over his soft, plush lips, kiss his freckles and kiss him and think that everything is okay. Loving is beautiful because it’s like time stops or slows until it’s just them, like lifetimes disguise themselves into seconds every time he’s with Dream. Loving is a two way street, one where he gives and Dream takes, and Dream gives and George takes, and it’s such a perfect, bubbly feeling, that George didn’t think he’d ever get tired of loving Dream.

Loving someone who might be dead is like being wrenched arms first out of the water and into the cold, freezing air, so cold that it _burns._

Loving someone who might be dead hurts. It hurts because Dream invades his mind until he’s the only thing he can think about, until every passing moment without him feels like hours upon hours of restless worry. Dream might be dead and that thought is something that never leaves his mind. George used to like how the only thing he could think about was Dream, but he finds that in reality, it's horrible. It’s horrible _because_ all he can think about is Dream, that Dream might be dying, and the fact that Dream may be dying somewhere where George can’t help _hurts._ Being without Dream is painful, like needles stabbing into his chest one by one until it’s suffocating, where all he wants is the days to pass by quick and quick and quicker until Dream finally comes back to him, comes back _home._

George can’t help but think that things would’ve been much easier if he just never loved in the first place.

But it’s too late for that now. There’s nothing he can do but hope, pray to whatever higher deity up there, that Dream is okay.

He doesn’t think Dream is okay, but he does it anyway.

  
  
  
  


Waiting is a long, tedious process, and George doesn’t think he can do it anymore.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since Dream left. He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting here, barely moving, waiting, never leaving.

He thinks that Dream is dead.

George sighs, reaches to the side to dig his hand into his backpack, looking for something to eat. He’s not hungry these days, but he eats anyway, and so confusion crackles up his skin when he digs around the bag for a few minutes, finding nothing but a near empty water bottle and a few empty wrappers. 

He’s out of food.

He’s going to starve if he doesn’t find something to eat, but finding something to eat means going outside.

George supposes this may be a sort of sign, maybe. A sign to move on. A sign that Dream isn’t coming back, and that he should stop wasting away in this dark, lonely kitchen. 

So he sighs, drags himself to his feet — his knees trembling and unsteady from lack of use, packs his things into his bag and slings it over his back. His gun feels almost foreign in his hand, so he passes it from one hand to another in an attempt to get used to the heavy weight again. Eventually he sighs, tucks the firearm into his belt and instead trades it for the hatchet, tentatively tests his sprained ankle, smiles halfheartedly when no pain arises, and pushes the doors to the kitchen open.

The outside is quiet, only the gentle whistle of a breeze blowing past. George carefully steps over the sharp glass littering the dirtied ground, feet settling onto the concrete sidewalk.

Being outside feels… nice. George inhales the fresh air, feeling oddly energized, and begins to walk. On the asphalt road lay a few still bodies, flies buzzing around the decomposing flesh. George winces, turns away from the sight and walks faster, until the buzz of flies no longer fills the air and he can breathe without inhaling the putrid smell of death. There’s, surprisingly, no sign of the horde that had chased him and Dream. The streets are quiet and still, almost as if there had never been a horde in the first place. It’s slightly unsettling, but George shoves down the nervousness boiling in his gut and walks forward, pausing every so often to peek curiously into each building. Most buildings seem to have been raided already, which isn’t surprising, but George supposes that if he digs around enough he’ll be able to find a few things to eat.

It’s honestly nostalgic, walking through the streets alone. George’s fingers are restless, tapping repeatedly on the hilt of his hatchet, missing the warmth of Dream’s palms and missing the way he would press against him as they walked. George misses a lot of things about Dream, and he supposes that’s just to be expected. Another downside of loving, he supposes, smiling humorlessly to himself. He remembers thinking that he couldn’t handle being alone again, not after Dream and Sapnap, and he still thinks he can’t really handle it. Memories of Dream are bittersweet, filled with longing and sorrow and a small, tiny bit of hope that still persists despite the way George tries to crush it, stomp out the flickering flame of desperate yearning that have yet to go away no matter how much he tells himself that Dream is dead and gone and not coming back.

So instead, he focuses on finding food, finding supplies, and avoiding death. 

He’s going to live for Dream, no matter how much he doesn’t want to.

  
  
  
  


Surviving alone is boring, and lonely, and George hates it.

He gets used to it though. Kind of.

It sucks, being alone. There’s no one to talk to. No one to fill the silence in the air as he walks, no one to watch his back when he’s rummaging through already looted stores. George spends his time walking around, gathering enough supplies to fill his backpack, and then locking himself away somewhere safe and hiding out there until he eventually has to go out again. It’s a routine, one that he becomes accustomed to. And this city is large; he thinks it’s a good thing. It’s good because there’s so many places to go, so many stores to loot that even if someone had already been through one there was a high chance of them leaving stuff behind. 

He’s glad for that. It makes things easier for him.

The days drag on. One after another. The sun rises and sets and rises again. Life moves on, and George tries his best to do so too.

He passes the time by sleeping, far more than he should. He thinks that he dreams, sometimes, because occasionally he’ll wake up with tears stinging at the corner of his eyes or sweat beading on his forehead. Memories of the dream never stay, they slip from his grasp and slither away before George can fully wake up, before he can straighten his mind and think. It had been annoying at first, but eventually he stopped caring. He thinks that he dreams of Sapnap, of Dream, and he doesn’t particularly want to remember those dreams.

The sanctuary comes to mind, from time to time. George finds himself wondering if he should look for it, just like Dream wanted to. He wonders how long it’ll take for him to get there alone. He wonders if he’ll even be able to survive long enough to get there. George wonders a lot, to a point where it’s tiring, and he figures that’s the reason why he sleeps so much.

Grief could also be another factor, but George doesn’t like thinking about grief. When he thinks of grief he thinks of Dream, and when he thinks of Dream he thinks of Sapnap, and when he thinks of Dream and Sapnap, he thinks of better times that have long since passed. George doesn’t like to remember those times; those memories bring nothing but desolation and regret. A lot of memories bring desolation and regret, George discovers, so he stops recalling his memories, instead focuses on the present.

George discovers that he regrets a lot of things.

He also discovers that he doesn’t like to think as much as he does.

So he sleeps, and travels from building to building, block to block, store to store, and lives. Somehow. It’s a routine. Wake up, scavenge until his bag is full, find somewhere safe, sleep until his bag is empty, and repeat.

George learns a lot of things when he’s alone. He learns that he hates routines.

He also hates being alone.

He also thinks that he hates Dream, just a little, for dying without him. For trying to be a selfless bastard and leaving him hoping, only to never come back, only to die. George hates Dream for making him promise to live, _knowing_ that he will always keep his promises to Dream, and he hates Dream for making him feel love so strong that it hurts.

But there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can change. George is stuck, completely alone, for the first time in months, maybe even years. He’s not sure how long it’s been. He doesn’t keep track.

And so, the days move on. 

George tries to do the same.

  
  
  
  


Spring is coming.

George, honestly, barely notices when the cold begins to go away, when colorful flowers begin to sprout from the cracks in the asphalt. He barely notices when his breaths stop appearing in the form of cloudy mist, doesn’t even bat an eye once the mornings become warm and the gray, bleary clouds become white.

He does begin to sleep a little less though, spend a little more time outside where he can listen to the birds sing and allow the cool breeze to ruffle through his hair. Spring is a nice season in Florida, far better than summer, when it’s humid and hot and annoying.

_(“What’s your favorite season?”_

_George shrugged, kicking at the pebbles on the ground and watching them go skipping along the road. Dream tapped his shoulder again, impatient, so he cleared his throat to answer._

_“I don’t really have one,” he admitted. “The weather in the UK doesn’t change that much.”_

_“You’re so boring,” Sapnap chimed in. George stuck his tongue out at him childishly, and in return he was given a poke in the gut. Dream sighed, swatting Sapnap’s hands away from George and cutting between them so that George was on his left and Sapnap was on his right. It was a formation they tended to walk in far too often, as Dream was, honestly, the only thing keeping Sapnap and George from killing each other._

_“My favorite season is spring,” he interrupted, head craning to glance at the birds as they darted past, their loud chirps filling the air. Sapnap hummed his acknowledgement, tilting his head as a sign for Dream to continue. He did. “It’s warm, y’know? And nice. There aren’t that many mosquitos, and you can actually go out without being cold.”_

_“You’re just weak,” George snorted, drawing a huff of indignation out of Dream. “It’s barely even cold here, during winter.”_

_“You’re British,” Sapnap said, “your opinion doesn’t matter. All it does is rain in the UK.”_

_“That’s not true,” he fired back, scowling, “At least we get rain at all, when was the last time it rained in Texas?”_

_Sapnap didn’t reply. George grinned triumphantly, only to yelp when Dream poked him in the ribs, harder this time._

_“Be nice to each other,” he chided. “We’re supposed to be a team, guys.”_

_“Okay_ Dad _,” they said unanimously, playfully mocking, and then subsequently burst into giggles.)_

George sighs, rubbing absentmindedly at the pulse on his wrist as he walks. The city is quiet, per usual, dormant until the first signs of life make themselves known. George inhales deeply, the air cooling his lungs and calming the frantic beat of his heart, then exhales. His hatchet sits firm on his belt, the handle easily accessible, providing a feeling of security to him as he strolls. George turns the corner, spotting nothing but the same endless seeming view, parked cars lying abandoned along the sides of the street and litter drifting like tumbleweeds across the black asphalt.

“Long walk,” he mumbles to no one in particular, craning his head to peer through the windows of empty buildings. 

He breathes out another sigh. “Wonder if I’ll find something interesting today.”

He knows he won’t, but it’s a nice thought to have.

The first building is relatively empty, the shelves picked clean of any resources that could be useful. He does find a gun on the ground, from whom he doesn’t know, so he picks it up and slips it into an extra pocket of his bag. It never hurts to have more weapons, he figures. Finders keepers, anyway.

The sun climbs higher into the sky, and George walks on.

He likes to think that he’s being productive, even if his backpack weighs heavy with items. Spring is nice, and George doesn’t mind being outside during this time. It’s kind of comforting, to be able to walk around and admire the peaceful calmness of the city, even despite the dangers that lurk below the facade of safety. George thinks that, if the whole zombie problem wasn’t a thing, he wouldn’t really mind living like this. The vines crawling up the brick walls and trees sprouting from the cracks in the concrete are aesthetic, in an odd, dystopian sort of way.

The thing that catches his eye is a flash of bright coloring in the corner of his vision. George turns his head, peering up at the dirty sign hanging just above the doorway of the building to his right. A drug store. Could have some good stuff. George veers to the right, heading towards the glass door, and places a gentle, tentative hand on the metal handle. His other moves to his weapon, taking the handle of his hatchet in his hands, fingers curling naturally around the leather hilt and feeling the firm, familiar material under his palms.

He squints, peering inside, trying to see past the darkness slinking along the corners, even as the sun shines bright light into the building. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything moving inside. Well, not anything that could kill him.

So, George pushes the door open, and steps inside. Rats skitter along the walls, fleeing from sight as the area fills with sunlight, revealing the dust and dirt that drift lazily in the air. His footsteps bounce off the walls quietly, the atmosphere eerie, kind of. 

He takes a breath, slipping quietly between the shelves and tucking things into his backpack as he goes. There’s a surprising amount of stuff still left here, which is good, he supposes. The store isn’t big, but it’s not particularly small either. George hums to himself, tapping his fingers absentmindedly and strolling along. There’s something about the way the light peers through the windows, splashing the room in a golden glow, that’s… surreal, he thinks. It’s breathtaking in its own, weird way, and the silence of the city just further adds to the vibe of the place.

What startles him, however, is not the way that rats suddenly hiss along the walls, nor the way their claws scrabble against the floor as they delve further into the darkness. What startles him is the muffled, unmistakable purr of a running engine. Of a _car,_ a sound that’s begun to grow increasingly louder.

His pulse jumps, the hairs on his arms raising in alarm at the sudden noise. The car grows louder, then stops, and then there are voices; multiple of them. They’re hushed, like they’re trying to be quiet, and immediately George is scrambling to zip his bag shut and _hide,_ unsure of how friendly this group of people is. The only survivors George has ever encountered were Dream and Sapnap, and that was because of bad luck, bad circumstances. He got lucky with Sapnap and Dream, they had been good people. George is certain that they were some of a rare handful of survivors with good morals.

It’s common sense that the apocalypse pulls the worst out of everyone, so George isn’t going to die from getting shot because he was too trusting.

So he ducks towards the back of the building, sliding onto the floor to hide behind a large cardboard box — the kind that would’ve been filled to the brim with chocolate bars and candy boxes if society had not collapsed, and holds his breath. His pistol is heavy in his hand when he draws it out, clicking the safety off and wincing at how loud it is. The voices come closer, approaching, and then he hears the swoosh of the door being pushed open and gentle footsteps ricocheting off the walls.

Only one pair of footsteps. They must’ve split up to loot the other buildings.

Blood rushes in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins with every passing second, his heart thumping so hard against his chest that he thinks it may burst out.

The footsteps come closer, the sound of rustling clothes and things being shoved into backpacks following close after. George’s fingers adjust themselves on the trigger, his back leaning against the cardboard, chest tightening and his palms already beginning to sweat.

He’s never shot someone before — not someone living, at least. He’s not sure that he’s going to be able to if they turn out to be hostile. The thought of shooting another breathing, living person is sickening, even with the knowledge that they probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him too. Maybe George is weak for that. 

It’s something that can’t be helped.

The footsteps come ever closer. One after another. Steady, deliberate. _Pat, pat, pat._

Adrenaline pumps ever faster through his veins. His heartbeat roars loud in his ears. Quick, rhythmic. _Thump thump thump._

George wonders how hard it would be to sneak around, to slip out of the door and run before they can catch him. It’s the better option, better than waiting here to be found out and killed.

And so he inhales quietly, glances contemplatively at a similarly sized box just a few steps away. He pops his head over the top, hesitantly, seeing only but dark wisps of hair peeking out over the top of the shelves, moving slowly along and not seeming alarmed in the slightest. They have no idea he’s here.

George swallows thickly, pushing down the anxiousness thrashing in his gut, and moves, ducking behind the next box and holding his breath.

The footsteps continue, unbothered. He exhales, relief flooding his chest, and glances around. The next shelf is farther away, and the person is moving in the opposite direction, which is good. Awesome, actually. He peers over the top again, seeing the person heading steadily towards the other end of the building.

He takes his chance. The other survivor is nothing but a dark silhouette, features disguised by the shadows of the building as the sunlight shines in a way that makes them unrecognizable. George barely even glances at them as he slinks past, gun clutched tightly in his hand, eyes focusing on the glass door, where he can see their car parked along the sidewalk. 

Almost there.

The door comes closer. George allows even more relief to arise, the tension in his muscles dissipating with every step closer he takes. Eventually, George allows himself to straighten, watching the last shelf disappear from his vision like some sort of finish line. One hand reaches out; the black handle of the door is cold when his palm closes around it.

“Don’t move.”

George freezes, listens to the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, the tension crashing back into him ten times harder than before. He can feel their gaze on the back of his head, eyes burning into his skull as they point (presumably) a gun straight at him. Something churns in his stomach, something like deja vu, that makes his grip on the door handle tighten.

“Don’t move,” they say again, and George doesn’t know whether it’s the weeks of loneliness or desperation that makes their voice sound so unbearably _familiar,_ in a way that he can’t quite grasp, one that’s teetering on the edge of his fingers but slipping away nonetheless. He takes a deep breath, wondering if this is how he dies.

_This is a pretty lame way to die._

“Turn around slowly,” they order, and the familiarity is there again, poking at the back of his mind. But he ignores it, in favor of drawing his hand off the door and slowly turning, raising his hands to his head.

The sight he is greeted with is more than familiar.

The disbelief seizes him a split second later, locking eyes with the other survivor and taking in his features, from the freckles splashed across his face to the green eyes that reflect the warm sunlight, narrowed and wary as they peer at him.

It’s worth noting that George is not the kind of person who cries.

He’s not an emotional person as a whole. It’s just how he is. He hardly cried when Sapnap died, didn’t even cry when he thought that Dream was dead. His emotions are something he keeps tight control of, rarely letting them run rampant like his friends did. So it befuddles him, kind of (but not really), when he feels something wet dripping down his face, raises a hand and presses the pads of his fingers to his cheeks only to realize that there are tears beading at his eyes and slipping down his face. His throat feels tight, and his voice is hoarse, his tongue curling around the word uncertainly as it leaves his mouth and fills the air between them. 

It’s been so long since he’s said this that it feels _foreign,_ that it tastes unnatural on his tongue, but he forces it out.

“Dream?”

The gun lowers, green eyes widen. 

And then a soft, disbelieving, "George?"

"Dream." He says again, more certain this time, and takes a step forward. Once, then twice, then again, and the sound of Dream's gun clattering to the ground as it's dropped barely even registers in his ears before he's tumbling into Dream's chest; strong arms wrapping around him in response, and curling his fingers into the soft, familiar material of his hoodie. Dream's name falls from his lips again, and again, until the only sound that fills the air are his mumbled whispers of _DreamDreamDreamDreamDream._

And it's not like Dream seems to care all that much, because in return he hugs him so close that George thinks his bones might crack; but he doesn't mind, not really. He thinks that he should feel bad for staining Dream's hoodie with his tears like this, but he doesn't. Dream is here, and he’s alive, and he’s not dead, and that’s the only thought that runs through his head while they stand, silently, holding each other for the first time in months (weeks?).

"I thought you were dead," he whispers eventually, his words shaky. Dream laughs, quiet and watery, almost like he doesn't quite believe it either. He swallows, chest twisting, and speaks again. "You didn't come back." It's not accusing, just factual, but the way Dream hugs him closer suggests he feels bad about it. He should.

"I tried," He mumbles, "I got stuck in a building, and I was hurt — here," he pulls away, tugs the sleeve of his hoodie up to reveal white gauze wrapped around the expanse of his forearm. George stares at it, bringing his fingers to run softly over the material, and Dream takes the opportunity to bring his palm up to cup George's cheek, his hands staying loosely looped around Dream's bandaged wrist as his thumb swipes gently over the skin to collect the drying tears. 

"It was bad," he continues quietly, “I ran so far and I was bleeding. I — I thought I was going to die, George.”

“Why didn’t you?” George whispers, nuzzling into Dream’s palm. He knows the answer, obviously, but asks anyway. He watches the way Dream’s eyes soften at the sight, lips twitching as if wanting to curl into a smile, and the thumb smoothes over his cheek again, pads of his fingers warm against George’s skin.

“People saved me,” he mumbles, “they saw and they came and helped me. They have a place, it’s the place we were looking for, George. It’s — It’s great, there.”

He hums, presses his lips against Dream’s palm, eyelashes brushing gently against the skin of his cheekbones when they flutter shut, only to open again to peer into gentle green eyes. “Is it?”

“It is,” he confirms, voice raw. “You’ll like it.”

He turns and presses his face harder into Dream’s hand in an attempt to hide his grin, but knows Dream can still hear the smile in his voice when he responds, “You don’t sound like you’re giving me a choice.”

“I’m not,” Dream agrees, playing along, “but you’d come anyway.”

“I would,” he admits softly. Dream laughs, and his chest warms. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard in so long, and it's nice, and it makes his grip on Dream’s wrist tighten, like he doesn’t want to let go (he doesn’t).

“We should go,” Dream says, after another few beats of silence. George nods, allows Dream’s hand to slip from his grip and misses the warmth of his palm on his cheeks. Dream moves back to pick up his gun, lacing their fingers together, and happiness blooms in his stomach again. “I’ll introduce you to everyone,” he says, reassuring, “they’re nice. They’ll welcome you.”

“Do you have room in the car?” George asks absentmindedly, putting his own gun away as they move towards the door.

He shrugs. “It shouldn’t be a problem.” And then a cheeky grin curls his lips, making George smile fondly in return, “If not, you can just sit on my lap.”

“You’re dumb.” He scoffs. Dream wheezes — the sound makes his pulse flutter delightfully — and pulls him close, so that their arms brush together, pushing the door open. George has to blink a few times, to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in lighting, remaining quiet as Dream tugs him towards the car. There’s a couple of them waiting, chatting amiably, and when they approach George has to tell himself not to wince when three pairs of eyes lock onto him.

One of them tilts his head, peering at George curiously, then glances at Dream, then to their intertwined fingers and the loving, gleeful smile plastered onto Dream’s face. Recognition (oddly enough) — flashes in dark brown eyes, and then he asks, “Is this who you were looking for?”

“Yeah,” Dream confirms, the smile in his voice audible. “This is George. And George, meet BadBoyHalo,” he gestures towards the one who just spoke, then a man with dull green hair and curious red eyes. “That’s Sam, and Antfrost.” The last man is one with cream colored hair that fades to dark brown once it reaches the ends. He nudges George gently, “They’re the ones who helped me.”

They look trustworthy, he thinks. Friendly. Dream seems to trust them, with his life, so George will do the same.

“Thank you for that,” he says honestly, smiling a little at the chuckle that ripples through the group. Bad gives a cheerful ‘of course!’ and opens the car door, so Dream tugs him towards the back. Sam piles into the passenger seat whilst Bad takes the wheel, and Antfrost next to them. The air between the group is surprisingly cheerful. It’s a welcome change.

Dream’s thigh presses into his when he slides into the car, the seats soft and clean. Nervousness dances in his gut; he hasn’t been in a car in a little over a year, and he isn’t quite sure how good Bad’s driving is. Though, he supposes if the man was able to get all four people here without much trouble, he mustn’t be too bad.

Dream’s thumb rubs reassuring circles into the back of his hand, chuckling along to something that Sam says. George breathes a sigh, pressing close, inhales the smell of Dream and smiles when he allows him to tuck his head under his chin, breaths slowing. The car whirrs to life, beginning to glide down the streets smoothly, and the quiet conversation shared between Dream’s companions — which are his companions too now, he supposes — are nice to listen to. Background noise.

Dream’s heart, meanwhile, beats slow and steady, his chest rising and falling, a sure sign that he’s here, he’s real and he’s alive, and George allows himself to — for the first time in months, relax.

He’s not alone anymore. And Dream kept his word (even though it took him a while).

He thinks, drowsily, inhaling the smell of Dream and letting his eyes shut, the gentle rocking of the car as it moves making sleepiness settle deep in his bones, that maybe being alone was worth it, in the end.

He thinks, happily, listening to Dream’s gentle laughs and feeling the warmth of his hand, that everything will be okay.

  
He thinks, fondly, that choosing to live was one of the best decisions of his life.

  
  
  
  


_“Do you miss them?”_

_Dream hugs him closer, voice thick with sleepiness, “Miss who?”_

_“Your family,” George clarifies, taking Dream’s hand in his. Dream doesn’t protest, a smile dancing on his lips when George presses his lips to his knuckles, the pads of his fingers running gently over the calluses on Dream’s palms. “Don’t you get homesick?”_

_A contemplative rumble sounds in the back of his throat and he shifts a little on the bed where they lay, legs tangled together and the blanket pulled over both of their bodies._

_“Of course I miss them,” he answers honestly, “but I’m not homesick, per say.”_

_Curiosity rises in his chest, lukewarm and persistent, so George, impulsively, pokes a little deeper. Dream would tell him to stop, if he minded. “Why not?”_

_The answer comes immediately, without any hint of hesitance, “Cuz you’re here.”_

_“That’s cheesy,” George grumbles, pressing his face into Dream’s chest and breathing softly. Dream laughs._

_“It’s true,” he mumbles, sounding fond, “you’re home to me, George.”_

_Something warm floods his chest, all nice and lovely and delightful, filling him to the tips of his toes and making him grin bashfully, squeeze Dream’s waist a little tighter as gentle fingers begin to run through his hair. He breathes out, heart thumping hard against his chest, thinking that maybe the apocalypse wasn’t the worst thing to happen in his life. It led him to Dream, and led him to love, and love is a feeling that George adores more than any other._

_“You’re home to me, too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would make my day. I spent so long grinding this out -- my grades are dying (LMAO) so please let me know what you think!!! I'd appreciate it a lot. (Long paragraph comments are always welcome, I shoved a lot of stuff in here that I hoped people would pick up on :D)
> 
> [Check out my Twitter if you enjoyed!](https://twitter.com/Alienu_)
> 
> Special thanks to all my Twitter mutuals / followers who supported me <3
> 
> please excuse spelling mistakes im so tired and i wanted to post it so bad
> 
> Fair warning I may take a long break from posting, this fic really exhausted me. Sorry! I'll probably be back to writing after a couple of days, not too long!


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